


Don't Leave Anything Out

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Epistolary, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mystrade side-story, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first letter John writes home from Afghanistan is meant to go to a woman he went on only one date with. How it ends up in Sherlock's hands is completely innocent. What happens next is not.</p><p>What do you do when you find out the person you're in love with has been lying about something as monumental as who they are?</p><p>What do you do when you're the one who lied?</p><p>How on earth do you put the pieces back together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/gifts), [kitmerlot1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmerlot1213/gifts), [Oleta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleta/gifts), [kree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kree/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [EllieSaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts).



The letter wasn't addressed to him. He'd only realised that once he'd opened it, though, and who would know that he'd read through it at that point? Perhaps the assumption would even be that he HAD. And if you thought of it that way, he should read it simply on principle.

_____

 

Sarah had moved in a month prior. She was studying hospital management and was quiet. As far as neighbors went, she was about the best you could expect. She was close to nonexistent. That was exactly what he preferred, except when it came to Mrs Hudson, of course.

Mrs Hudson had spent the whole of the summer airing the downstairs apartment out and using every product under the sun to fight the damp. Once it was at bay, though Sherlock knew it wouldn't last, she'd put the flat up for rent. She'd even talked Sherlock into putting up a new coat of paint for her, something he would deny.

The truth was, he was fond of her. Mrs H, not Sarah. Quite fond. His mother had never been very good at her titular role and he found himself enjoying the sort of care one equates with childhood only early in his twenties. Yes, the woman nagged, but she also hugged and tutted and, most of all, cared.

He'd painted 221c after cleaning out the junk and hadn't been too disappointed with the outcome. It was almost cheery. Someone like Sarah was bound to move in.

_____

 

He sat looking at her name at the top of the letter, the letter that was addressed to his flat, and wondered if his lack of dislike for her should make him feel guilty for reading her mail.

He shook the thought off and went to his chair to find out who on earth was writing her from...where was it...Afghanistan. Christ. He almost expected to find sand in the creases of the envelope. 

None was there. 

Onward, then.

'Dear Sarah,

Not sure if you remember me. We went on a date six months ago. I was the blond bloke who almost fell asleep in his pasta.

That sort of thing happens when you're preparing to go practice medicine in a war zone.

That's where I am now. Afghanistan. 

Well, everyone else is writing friends and family and I don't really have either, but I did like you and I thought you might have liked me before the near sleeping incident. 

I thought I would be practicing under another doctor but I ended up thrown right in the middle of things. I remember you were working in the health care sector, just not where. There have been a lot of injuries lately. I suppose I just came in at a bad time. 

Everyone is nice enough. The food is okay, although I have a feeling I'll hate it soon.

Not sure exactly what else to write.

If you don't want me to write again, just say.

Ta,  
John'

Sherlock turned the paper over twice, frown stretching out on his face, and then set it down. 

There were two distinct thoughts going through his mind. 

The first reminded him that Sarah had a boyfriend, the bland but dependable, Todd. 

Todd was a fixture in Sarah's life. She spent a noticeable amount of time at his flat and Mrs Hudson was convinced they were soon to be engaged. Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he could believe that hunch, as Mrs H lived for gossip of the romantic fashion, but it seemed a possibility. If he brought the letter to Sarah now, she would tell him not to write back...but...

The second thought was that the letter had mentioned injuries.

No.

No, he really shouldn't.

Mail fraud was a serious...

If, IF, he decided to write back to this army fellow, he would have to make it clear that Sarah wasn't interested. But, why would the man reply if she wasn't?

Correction:

If, IF, he decided to write back to this army fellow, he would have to make sure to hide the letters so that Mrs Hudson didn't know. She would definitely find it more than a bit not good.

It wasn't exactly bad, though, was it? The man clearly didn't really care for Sarah, or he would have spoken to her earlier and remembered what she did for a job. And, he thought, not have nearly fallen asleep in his pasta.

He was...he was saving the man the disappointment. That was all. He would let him have his girl to write home to and just cut it off later, a few months down the line. No harm done in that. Perhaps he'd even be killed before he found out the only person he had to write home to didn't want him. It was practically public spirited!

Sherlock had seen some segment on people who wrote letters to soldiers, telling them to hold out for peace or some other such nonsense, and they weren't considered bad people. They were doing a service. This would be very much like that. A service for a serviceman. He would be this army doctor's friend when he had no one else.

Settled on it, he went to his desk and pulled out a biro and a fresh pad of paper. It was rather easy, starting up a conversation with a person who obviously needed someone to talk to. He set pen to paper and began the letter.

_____

John honestly hadn't expected to get a reply. When the letter came, and only a week later, he spent the entire day wishing supper was already there so he could open it. 

It could have been a blow off. It could be that she was writing back to tell him that she never wanted to talk to him, that they'd had no chemistry. The second he got the envelope in his hands, though, he knew it wasn't true. It was thick, obviously filled with more that one piece of paper. 

They hadn't really had much in common. He had no idea what she would write that would take up so much space. He couldn't remember if she was in medical school or not, didn't remember much of anything, to be honest, and wasn't even sure what to write in that first letter. It was a long shot.

When he got back to his bunk after supper, he opened it right away, the sounds of the men and women around him dulling as he began to read.

'Dear John,

It all sounds rather exciting. Tell me about the injuries you've encountered. Don't leave anything out, no matter how small a detail it may seem. 

I studied Chemistry and Medicine in uni and am currently working with the Met. It would be useful for my work to add to the long list of injuries I can identify. Of course, photos would be extremely helpful, but it's difficult to get those, no matter how important, unless the person has died.

Is it not good to ask if anyone has died? 

I investigate murders mostly, but I understand that as you were the doctor to last see them, it might take some sort of emotional toll on you. It's difficult for me to think in those terms, but DI Lestrade says if my touch doesn't become more delicate he'll revoke my witness interview privileges. That would be detrimental to not only his current solve rate, but also the city as a whole. His selfishness is short sighted, but that's the way with the average human, isn't it?-'

John set down the letter for a moment. 

She was hilarious, in a way. Overwhelming. It wasn't what he had remembered, but he didn't really give a toss. She was...stunning.


	2. Flora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets the letter and writes one back. Sherlock begins to question the exchange.

The remainder of the letter was an intense recounting of recent cases and anomalies in corpses. It was interesting reading, along with the critiques of the people who worked at the Yard and the morgue. John found himself reading through it a second time before he could put it down. When he did, it was only to pick up a pen to start writing a bluey back.

Sarah was surprising, funny, and odd. That combination, along with what he remembered of her good looks, had him feeling like bragging. It was quite the turn of luck. Now all he had to do was interest her back. He looked at the last line, a simple request for another letter, and the sloppy 'S' she signed, and grinned anew.

_____

A week later, due to the plane ride it took to get it there, another letter found its way onto the small table in the foyer on Baker Street. This time, though it was addressed to 221b, it didn't hold Sarah's name. Instead, it simply read 'S'. Sherlock scoffed at it, though something strange seemed to flutter in his chest, and took the letter upstairs.

He didn't have much hope for it, as this John fellow wasn't the best conversationalist. 

The envelope seemed thick, and Sherlock wondered what John could have stashed in it. He hoped it was a stack of photos, but knew that twenty-four hour photo printing services were out of the realm of possibility when it came to a war zone. Instead of photos, what Sherlock found were seven pages of precisely sketched wounds, bugs, and plants.

He sat back after laying them all out on the coffee table and sighed. They were outstanding, especially the wounds. He was overcome with the first pang of regret. The pictures surely took more than a day to draw, possibly weeks, due to the infrequency of serious wounds. The fact that the man had given them to him, had trusted him with them, made Sherlock a bit queasy. It was rather personal, rather fast.

He picked up one of the pages and held it close, eyes focusing on the crosshatch as his brain mulled over his next move.

Not reading the letter was out of the question, he was bloody going to do it, but what he did after was up for discussion. He should probably toss the lot in the fire, though some of the pictures were good enough to frame, and be done with it.

Curiosity no longer able to be put off, he unfolded the single piece of paper.

'Dear S,'

And there it was again, that mild turning of a leaf in his sternum.

'I really didn't expect you to write back. It was a happy surprise to get your letter. You said that my life sounded interesting, but yours seems just as much so. Consulting Detective, first I've heard of something like that.

The case where you took down the smuggler had me on the edge of my seat. It makes me think you should write them up for a newspaper or something. The bit with you tackling someone had me cheering. The men probably think me mad, now.

I was wondering if you'd like me to send you a video. One of the lads has a recorder and they've been acting out music videos and posting them on the web. I promise not to send you any Britney Spears inspired content, as I'm sure you would have a coronary, and as I'm not there to save your life.

To answer one of your questions, there have been men that have died. Three the second night I was stationed here. It wasn't the greeting I was hoping for. And, yes, it's a bit too much to ask for photos of their corpses. Not because of my feelings, as that part of me is numb, but because of their families. If you were on the case, which would be solved without any suspense, as we know exactly what happened, I would allow it. Not sure the government would, though.

As for injuries, there have been a few. I hope you don't mind me sending the drawings. They're not any good, but you can get the idea from them. I'll go over the ones I drew in a moment, but, as you seem to be fine with all things morbid, I think I'll start with the worst.

The reason I didn't sketch it is that there wasn't really anything to sketch.'

Sherlock read on, enthralled by the honesty. No matter how awful John's first letter had been, his descriptions of injury and local plant life outshone several authors Sherlock had read on the subjects. He could almost close his eyes and smell the copper tinged sand, imagine the scrub and determined flora. 

When he had finished reading the letter he folded it primly and tucked it into his breast pocket before picking up the pile of drawings again and leafing through them slowly, all the while wondering how this had landed in his lap.

He wasn't really lucky when it came to social interaction. Luck was the only way it made sense to him, small talk and nicety being so far outside his realm of understanding as to seem wholly nonsensical. And yet, he'd been himself and this man not only wrote back, but did so with interest. 

That was when it first occurred to him that he couldn't possibly give that up. Two letters in and he was hooked. How incredibly foolish he was.


	3. Rain And Murder

Mrs Hudson came in that night to find Sherlock smelling a folded up piece of paper. Smelling it. Well, the young man was odd.

"Sherlock, dear," she said, tidying the kitchen table as best she could without disturbing what he'd told her multiple times was an experiment on dust. 

"Mrs Hudson," he spat back, snapping from his thoughts and going to stand behind her in the kitchen. "How many times have I told you-" he stopped when he saw exactly where she was cleaning. "Oh, thank you for avoiding the, uh..."

"You should cordon it off, love," she said, indulgently. "Perhaps some tape around the edge."

"Actually," Sherlock admitted, sagging back against the countertop, "I think the experiment has rather run its course. I suppose it could go."

She grinned at him and swept a wet cloth over the surface. They both frowned at how close to blackened it was when it came away.

"What's on your mind, dear?" Mrs H asked, tossing the cloth in the bin and going to wash her hands.

"Your husband," Sherlock started.

"Oh, the horrid man," Mrs H tisked.

"He was in the army, wasn't he?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs H nodded and looked Sherlock up and down, appraising him. He never wanted to talk about anything lightly. "He was. Three years. We weren't married at the time, but we were dating."

Sherlock shifted and chewed his lip a bit before going on. "What kinds of things did you write to him?"

"Well, we were very attracted to each other-" she started.

"Oh, God," Sherlock sighed.

"Mostly naughty things," Mrs H said candidly.

"Yes, I get the point. No need to go-" Sherlock tried.

Mrs H took pity on him and changed the subject a bit. "But he did like to get information from home. Local news and the like. Being far away from home is difficult for everyone, I'm afraid. You should head down to the PO and pick up some blueys to write him back."

Sherlock decided the next time he wrote John he would send clippings from the news. Things about current events and the like. Things that he had no interest in. 

He took up the newspaper to decide what might be of interest to someone homesick. His eyes went immediately to the latest murder and he was lost to the world for the next hour.

Mrs Hudson cleaned a bit more and left him to his thoughts.

_____

After texting three times and getting no answer, Sherlock made his way downtown to see what on earth was holding Lestrade up. He knew they were having trouble with the latest case, why on earth would the local newspaper think to write on it if not to harass them, and had an idea he couldn't keep to himself. He had to see the body, it was that simple.

Partway to the Yard, the skies broke and rain started to fall. It was rush hour, and even Sherlock couldn't seem to get a cab. By the time he made it to the front of the building his hair was soaked. He shook his whole body in an attempt to dry off, walked in, looking very much the wet kitten, and scowled at each glance he got. 

The lackeys knew not to mess with the big, bad, illusion of a wolf, and let him trudge to the staff loo to dry himself off. The face he pulled when he saw himself in the mirror would have been comical to anyone else, but to the man standing unnoticed behind him, it spelled out nothing but trouble.

"We don't need your help," Anderson whinged, crossing his arms and leaning against one of the stalls.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man in the mirror and pulled out more paper towels to dry his hair.

"I'm serious," Anderson said. "We can do our jobs just fine without you traipsing around the crime scene."

"If that were true," Sherlock shot back, "you're solve rate would be better than mine."

"Oh, hold on, now," Anderson huffed. "We cleared eighty percent of our cases without you, last month!"

Sherlock turned, clearly giving up on his hair, and stared daggers. "Yes, and while you were busy clearing a measly eighty percent of missing puppies and stolen candy bars, I solved three cold case murders. I hardly see the comparison."

"Missing-" Anderson tried, but Sherlock was already out the door and headed towards Lestrade's office.

Sherlock was feeling rather good about himself, sopping hair and shirt collar aside, after having verbally spared with Anderson and won. He held himself a bit taller and didn't knock on his way into Lestrade's office. He didn't interrupt anything salacious. Lestrade may have been once again made a fool by his wife's affairs, but he would never take up one himself. No. He was eating a donut.

He frowned, fingers and chin dusted with powdered sugar, and tried to look around Sherlock to the hall. Perhaps he was hoping someone else would come along to tell him off. He was never that lucky.

"You look..." he started.

Sherlock's good mood melted. "Be careful with what you say next."

"Wet," Lestrade finished, taking heed.

"Yes, well, there happens to be a great deal of water falling from the sky at the moment," Sherlock replied snidely.

Lestrade sighed and set down the last bit of his donut. He cleaned his fingers and mouth and crossed his arms, readying himself for what was next.

"I want in on the case," Sherlock said, as confidently as one can manage while starting to shiver.

"No," Lestrade replied. "We've just about got it sewn up. We don't need another pair of eyes at this point."

"Practically sewn up. Fine, if that's what you call arresting the wrong suspect, I'll find my way out," Sherlock said. He turned as if to leave and gave Lestrade the precise amount of time it would take him to second guess himself.

"Wait," the man sighed. "What do you mean, wrong suspect?"

Sherlock grinned, unseen, and turned. 

_____

Twenty-seven hours later, with a bloody nose and a smile the size of London itself, Sherlock returned home. 

The case had been a success. The only drawback was the bloody nose, and who minded that whilst pumped full of adrenalin? Sure, it would hurt later, but later simply wasn't a concern.

He ran up the stairs and stripped off his clothes, making a mental note to get his coat dry cleaned, and started up the shower. When it was near scalding he hopped in and scrubbed himself clean of the smell of the city. He had enough grime on his clothes to have soaked through to his skin, the rain not helping, and he was more fastidious than most thought when they spied him going through bins for clues. 

The second he was out of the shower and clothed in his favorite pyjamas, he sat down to write. While he recounted his day, his leg shook, heel thumping the floor. 'Oh,' he thought, 'John will really like this one.'


	4. Hi, I'm John

John couldn't read it sitting down. He was pacing the hallway just outside the barracks, speaking the words written, low, nearly growling, under his breath. Punctuated by barks of laughter. The scene was enough to draw a few spectators.

"What the hell's he doing?" Darren asked Murray, leaning his head out after seeing his friend was watching something just outside his view.

"I think our man has got himself a girl," Murray returned, smiling softly and crossing his arms.

Darren shook his head and went back to what he was doing. Murray, he thought, was a strange friend. Anyone else on base would be teasing Watson at that point, mercilessly. Instead, as he saw through surreptitious glances while he wrote his own girl back home, Murray was watching him with a whistfulness that was out of place here. He liked him, though, so he kept the thought to himself, and let Murray moon over the new kid a bit.

Murray, for his part, was madly in love with Watson. He'd only known the man a month, but there was something about him. He was guarded and skillful, clearly on his way to Captian or better, and had a wicked sense of humor. Dark. 

The thing that really won him over, though, was Watson's unrelenting competency. He just didn't stop working until he was done. That first week he'd been covered in blood and unfazed and it hadn't stopped there. He was the perfect soldier, that way; willing to work his heart out at the drop of a hat. Seconds after being woken up, Watson was ready to go, mentally taking notes and readying himself for whatever hell he was about to see. Murray didn't know if anything would ever be able to break the man's pace. Ever.

So he watched Watson read through the letter, speaking the words to himself and laughing, and thought that was good. He couldn't give Watson what he needed, after all. Not then, and possibly not ever. Who knew if Watson would ever come out of the closet. And hell, that wasn't a jab at all, because he himself was gay through and through and wasn't letting that on in the least. It was just...with someone like John Watson, you thought about changing that.

He shook it off and focused on Watson getting to the end of the letter and grinning. The man sat on the floor and pulled some trimmed newspaper articles from the envelope, looking them over briefly before putting them back, and then glanced up.

"Murr," John said, eyes crinkling at the edges and chest puffed out like a sparrow. "You still got that camera around?"

It took a moment for Murray to nod. The man was stunning.

_____

The medical bay was locked up. He and his commander were the only ones with keys. It seemed the best place to film. He didn't want to make a video like the other lads had, all braggadocio and dust, he wanted it to be just him. Just him and what he did. 

And, Christ, he felt foolish with the medical coat on. 

He pulled it back off, it feeling like a costume when there wasn't any blood being shed, and sat back in his chair at his small desk and sighed.

He knew that what he wanted to do was reintroduce himself. He was painfully aware that his first impression hadn't been the best. She hadn't called back, yeah? But she'd WRITTEN back! That meant that somehow, who he was, even without his looks (which he was confident in, for good reason) she liked him. 

She liked HIM.

She was cynical and arrogant and brilliant, and she liked him. 

It was pretty much a miracle, as John found himself going for women who were unassuming more often than not. She'd seemed as much on their date. She seemed to be someone who had her future blandly set out in front of her and was taking it step by step. And yes, that was what he thought he'd wanted. 

John laughed brashly and fell back in his seat. Christ, he'd been wrong. Predictable might have been what he'd always gone after, and maybe a trick cyclist would have a few words on that, but he'd never been happy. Not like this, anyhow. This unapologetically bizarre woman, with all her rough edges and quirks, had him swooning. 

Perhaps unpredictable was his type, and he'd never known it. 

He breathed deeply and sat up, turning and setting the camera on a few books to bolster it up to eye level, and hit the record button. The little red light blinked and he smiled.

"Hi, I'm John," he said, breathing out and crumpling up and deleting it as quickly as possible.


	5. Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets the video from John...after an excruciating wait.

"Hi, I'm John," John said sarcastically, leaning in towards the camera and pressing the button he was sure would start the filming over. "Brilliant. Really smooth. She knows your bloody name. Christ, how does this thing work. Oh, ah, there it goes."

John sat back again, sighing and picking at his nails, clearly thinking the camera had stopped filming. "Okay. What to say, what to say? Hi, I'm John. That sounded stupid. What does a person say? Hey, in a war zone. Hope you like my kit?" 

He leaned forward again and pressed the button just left of the record button. The camera turned off.

"Hey, I, um, your last letter was good. I'm glad you liked the sketches. I really didn't think they were-bloody hell. Your last letter was good?" He sighed, disgusted with himself, and inadvertently turned the camera back on.

It wasn't going to be as easy as he thought.

_____

John hadn't written back. It had been a whole two months. 

Sherlock had been bragging. He was bragging and it wasn't impressive, it was stupid. He was stupid. His interests weren't interesting and he would never get another letter from John and it was all for the bloody best anyhow because John didn't even know him and was probably only writing back because he was bored.

Yes. Yes, it was for the best. John was only bored and...

But he'd sent the sketches. He'd sent the sketches and said he'd enjoyed the last description of a case.

Sherlock would simply have to figure out what was different about this case and...tailor it to John's liking. Maybe he would just have to hand pick the cases he talked about. That wouldn't be less genuine. 

I mean, people never liked Sherlock to begin with, so it only made sense that John would dislike some parts of him. The man being enamoured by him so easily had been some sort of illusion, obviously. There was only so much that could be inferred from a letter. Perhaps, perhaps when he'd said the last recounting was good he was being sarcastic. Tone was lost in text. That was no one's fault.

So, yes, it was best to assume that John thought he was an idiot.

Sherlock swallowed hard on what seemed to be his lunch trying to crawl back up his throat and lay back on the sofa, hands steepled below his chin.

It didn't make sense that the idea hurt so much. He was stupid to become so attached so quickly. It had started off as a lark. When that all changed, he couldn't be sure. It was somewhere between getting the second letter and writing back. Somewhere in that impossible few days he'd constructed a relationship in his mind. A friendship so easy that he'd been blind to its very construction.

He felt like burning his flat to the ground. He felt like never speaking again. He felt like dirt.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson came in, fluttering about and opening the curtains to let an abusive amount of light in. Sherlock growled and rolled onto his belly.

"You know, being in the army isn't easy. I'm sure whoever you're writing to simply doesn't have the time to write back now. It's unpredictable out there," Mrs H said, going into the kitchen to make Sherlock his morning tea.

"I'm sure I don't know what on earth you're talking about," Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by the sofa cushions.

"Of course, dear," Mrs Hudson soothed.

"Im not writing anyone," Sherlock went on, trying to convince himself just as much as his only companion. "It was a mistake. He wasn't trying to write to me anyhow."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, unseen. "He'll write back."

Sherlock sighed, face stuck to the worn leather of the sofa, and closed his eyes tightly.

_____

Sherlock had barely even showered by half six when Mrs Hudson broke through his door again, brandishing a battered envelope. Sherlock stood, mouth hanging open, as she came closer. She shook it in his face and grinned.

"Well," she said. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Sherlock pulled himself together and put on a mask of indifference. "I suppose I might as well," and then when Mrs H looked on. "Alone."

She nodded and handed it over, squeezed his arm, and left the flat with a bounce in her step. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to sit in his chair, turning the envelope over in his hands. It had been opened and re-sealed with a thick tape. He pulled his pocket knife from where it was hidden below the chair and opened it carefully. Inside was a single piece of paper and, surprisingly, a memory stick.

Oh. Oh, that would account for the wait. National security and the like. They had surely looked through it before sending it on its way.

He turned the envelope over and looked at the first date stamp. One and a half months prior.

It was strange to feel suddenly lighter. 

On the paper was a hastily written note.

'Hey S,

I took so long making this video that I don't really have time to write. I hope it isn't awful. Let me know.

John'

Sherlock scrambled for his laptop, opening it quickly and plugging in the memory stick. He couldn't account for the sense of urgency, so set it aside to never be considered again. He clicked on the icon and the window opened, the video paused at the first frame, a blurry up close shot of John's face.

It was impossible to tell what John looked like at that point, and though Sherlock didn't know why he wanted to know so badly, afforded him the opportunity to close he video and never watch it. He could walk away. He was already too bloody invested.

Bollocks.

He hit play.

John sat back in a desk chair, a small examination room with a silver table behind him, and smiled. It was a shaky smile. He took a deep breath and smiled wider.

"Hi, I'm John."

The smile dropped immediately and he rolled his eyes, slumping in the chair before leaning forward to fiddle with the camera. Sherlock felt something light bubbling up inside his chest as John started to berate himself.

The thing in his chest seemed to try to pry its way out as John sat back, thinking the camera was off, and spoke to himself while picking at his nails. It came out as a laugh, a strained one, but a laugh nonetheless. John prattled on about his sketches and Sherlock found he could no longer sit still, that, in fact, he couldn't sit at all.

He stood, holding the laptop haphazardly under one arm, and walked around in a circle, trying to catch his breath. Christ, how had his breath been sucked out of him? How was this ridiculous man making him feel...full of bloody firecrackers. He felt that if he opened his mouth again they might just pour out.

He set the laptop down on the table in time to see John fumble with the camera and apparently turn it off and then back on again. When John started to talk to himself again, trying to get up his courage, Sherlock slammed the laptop closed and laughed hysterically.

He gathered himself together a bit and went to the cabinets above the sink. "God, he's, he's just awful with that thing, God. God. God, I need a drink."


	6. In Action

Sherlock pulled the half empty bottle of whisky from the top shelf and grabbed a tumbler. In all honesty, the last time he'd had a drink was six months prior when his brother insisted he try to get a flatmate. That had gone swimmingly. 

He poured himself two fingers and recapped the bottle. 

He should have been annoyed. He was always annoyed when people didn't know how to use technology. He'd pulled Lestrade's mobile right out of his hands on more than one occasion to finish whatever the man had been trying to do. He refused to let Mrs Hudson touch anything with a screen for fear he'd be convinced to hang himself due to the outcome. He wouldn't even let her sign the gadget for deliveries. 

And here he was; not annoyed. He wasn't comfortable, that would be obvious to even the most unobservant onlooker, but it wasn't annoyance.

Once, when he was thirteen, he'd found an Army recruiter's pamphlet in a bin somewhere. Back then, that was where all pornography came from, as far as he was concerned; a bin, or his father's drawer. The things his father kept had never been of any interest to him, so imagine how he felt when he found out that it was the gender of the 'model' in question, and that he didn't even really need to see them naked to...well, the point is, the pamphlet excited him.

He was...excited, and looking at it one night when his mother had walked up the stairs. The second he heard her steps he panicked. That, as far as he could tell, was the closest to this very feeling as he'd ever experienced.

Aroused panic. It was very, very close to aroused panic. Maybe, more surprise than panic. It didn't feel as if it would end badly. He was just, sort of, frightened to start it up again.

His heart was beating and he couldn't stop smiling and, after taking a few gulps of his drink, holding the laptop to his chest. 

He drank down the last of his tumbler and went to his bed to watch the rest. He sat on it gingerly, refusing to undress, as that would simply urge that aspect of it along, and opened the laptop.

His finger hesitated, and he pressed play.

John scratched his neck, finger moving along his collar, and spoke to himself. "Stop talking about yourself. There's obviously nothing you can say that doesn't sound pathetic. Just...talk to her."

He fumbled with the camera, the shot going square for some reason, and tried again.

"I loved the case," he said in a gust, smiling almost sadly. "Everything you write me is just...you must be a genius. I wish...I wish I was with you. I feel stupid saying that, but, yeah, yeah, I wish I was with you. Running about London like you do, punching baddies. It's not like that here. It's not one man you can find and arrest. I don't want to, well, I'm not romanticizing what you do, but, you're right out of a detective novel. Not sure what role I would play. Useless muscle? Sounds like you've no problem taking care of thugs yourself but...Jesus, I wish I could see you in action."

The last bit was breathy and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry as John ran a hand through his hair.

"I bet," John added, pausing to lick his lips and look right into the camera, "I bet you're breathtaking."

There was a shout in the background and another man walked into the room. John said a hasty goodbye and the other man easily turned the camera off. 

If you asked Sherlock what John said after 'breathtaking' he wouldn't be able to answer. John had uttered that last sentence and Sherlock's mind had gone fuzzy around the edges. He felt adrift. 

He wanted to be breathtaking for this man, this doctor, this soldier. He wanted to be breathtaking.


	7. The Box

Sherlock walked into Lestrade's office and around his desk, the man in question looking at him like he was mad and trying to stand up.

"No, stay sitting. Really, it will be easier this way," Sherlock said, hands strong on Lestrade's shoulders as he wheeled him right out to the hall.

"What in the bloody-" Lestrade squeaked.

Sherlock didn't hear the remainder, as he'd already retreated into the office and closed and locked the door. He pulled the memory stick from his pocket and yanked the cable that led to the speakers from the computer before plugging in the stick and pulling the video up. 

He knew he had minutes with which to work, and made his decisions with the urgency that was needed. He was a machine. He would get results. 

The first strained smile? Yes.

John sitting picking his nails, eyebrows raised? Yes.

The half smile upon uttering his enjoyment of the case write up? Yes.

The honesty on John's face after he said breathtaking? Obviously.

With those four moments picked and still shots taken, Sherlock quickly chose the best printer in the building and selected two sizes of each. He hit print, ejected the stick, and erased any evidence that he'd been in the system at all. 

Lestrade got the door open in just enough time to find Sherlock pulling out what they both knew was a file of cold cases, labeled 'Sherlock' in red block lettering, kept for particularly boring weeks. Lestrade's eyes went wide as Sherlock stuffed the whole file into his coat.

"No, hold on," Lestrade said, walking forward with one arm outstretched.

"Good day," Sherlock said with a tip of his head, making his way quickly around a muttering Lestrade and to the front desk where they printed out permits and the like on the new ink jet printer.

As he'd planned, the whole 'locking the DI out of his office' bit had caused quite the commotion, and no one had noticed the pictures being printed out. He ignored the confused looks and snatched the pile, going through it quickly and leaving behind what wasn't his, and left.

He only let himself look them over once he was comfortably secured in the back seat of a cab and on his way to Baker Street, and even then, only after he'd looked through all the cold cases. Interesting to look at all that text and not be able to read a single word. 

He couldn't bring himself to look at the last photo so he settled on the one right before it. Full sized, full colour, John Watson breathless. It did things to a man. He tried to hold the photo's gaze, tried not to look away, as the cab rounded on Baker Street. It was a sort of trial to not look away, (See how I'm not overwhelmed by you? See?) and one he was happy didn't last more than a few minutes. 

He paid the cabbie and jogged up the steps, only to be stopped in the entryway by Mrs Hudson, phone in her hand.

"It's your brother, dear," she said, handing it over and looking rather flustered. "Says he'll come by if you don't take the call. And me, already in my nighty."

Sherlock took the phone and stomped up to his flat, busting through the front door and holding the receiver to his ear. 

"What?"

There was a short but pointed pause on the other side of the line before Mycroft spoke. "Theft. In the middle of NSY. Is this a cry for help, brother dear?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen, pushing things aside and setting down the photos and file before going to get his best pair of scissors. "He called you, then. Don't know why I didn't see that coming."

"Of course he called me," Mycroft replied with a sigh, "what else was he meant to do?"

"Mind his own business?" Sherlock ventured, sitting and going about trimming each of the four small photos from the extra paper.

"Who is this fellow?" Mycroft asked smoothly.

Sherlock's entire body went still before he could stop it and he pulled himself together enough to glance around the room before it occurred to him. "You've got your boyfriend's office under surveillance? Bit paranoid, isn't it?"

"Seeing as he's married, and I'm single, I think boyfriend is a bit reaching. I'm simply concerned. Concerned for both of you. For your safety," Mycroft replied, agitated even as he knew it was the comment's point.

"I'm fairly certain your concern breaks several laws, Mycroft," Sherlock spat, going back to trimming the photos.

Mycroft sighed and Sherlock could imagine him rolling his eyes.

"Who is he?" Mycroft pressed.

"Why don't you have your people find out?" Sherlock teased, pulling his wallet out and slipping the newly trimmed photos in behind his bank card.

"Who is he, to you?" Mycroft said, sounding concerned. "And how did you wind up involved with someone overseas?"

Sherlock stomach dropped. He knew how easy it would be for Mycroft to find out who John was, it just hadn't occurred to him that he would be asked that specific question, in that specific tone. He swallowed and scrunched up his nose. 

Who is he, to you? That really was the question, wasn't it? 

Was he Sherlock's friend? Friendships based on lies weren't really friendships, were they?

Was he...

"He's an admirer. Some people actually read my blog, you know. And he's no business of yours. Now bugger off."

Sherlock rang off and set the receiver aside. Mycroft wouldn't contact John, not unless there was something illicit going on. The sickness he felt at being found out simply wasn't real, because he wouldn't be. He just wouldn't be. 

He took the rest of the photos and brought them into his room, pulling a large rusted box from the back of his closet and opening the top. He swallowed down on the nostalgia the move caused and sat crosslegged in front of it, setting the photos aside for a moment.

Inside the box was what Sherlock thought best encompassed his mind. It was the box he hoped would be sold to some museum when he died of old age very far in the future. The most important things, the things held in highest regard, by the mind of a generation;

One box of tea, the kind his parents had liked when he was young

One gold necklace, his grandmother's

One book on tobacco ash, yet to be published, written by the man himself

One envelope filled with leaves collected at his childhood home

One lock of fur, his first dog's, tied up in red ribbon

And, finally,

One stack of photos

He took the stack and pulled the string end to go through them. 

There was his family outside his grandparents home, sun high in the sky and his hair wild. There was his first true experiment, a concoction of milk and other kitchen staples that was meant to yield rubber. There was his cousin's tenth birthday party, girls in brightly coloured outfits drinking tea in the yard behind their house. There was Mycroft, the day he left for Uni, ill-fitting suit and brand new luggage. And now, after reaching to the floor and picking them back up, there was John. John smiling at him. John impressed. John happy becuase of him, for all of time to see.


	8. Falling

John got a letter back from Sarah two and a half months after he'd sent the video. He'd known it would take a while to make it to her, but the wait to get a response was painful. He hadn't had a chance to look the video over and wasn't sure how it came across, wasn't sure if he looked utterly stupid.

He'd realised partway through making the video that he had fallen for Sarah. That wasn't a small thing. John, truth be told, had never fallen for a woman before. He had only really been in love once. It was in uni, during his residency. 

Charlie was a fellow med student. They'd met just as they'd started the year and had soon become close friends. John had never taken his feelings for men any further than thoughts. He'd told his best friend once, in a bout of panic, that he wasn't sure why he felt such strong fondness for a male classmate. When his friend had asked if maybe he was bisexual he'd denied it. At the time, he really thought it was true. He thought he'd never go any further than liking a man, so he must be straight.

Years later, though he'd never really considered it before, he was contemplating kissing Charlie. He was contemplating it with frightening frequency. 

At that point, he couldn't really imagine anything more. He was sure he would balk at the chance to take it further, and figured that that would make him a horrible boyfriend. If he'd never be able to touch Charlie intimately, never be able to satisfy him, then what was the point?

One night, after a particularly difficult patient had nearly died on them, the two men ended up back at Charlie's flat, getting pissed. 

Charlie initiated, leaning in and pressing a messy kiss to John's lips. They'd ended up rutting against each other, fully clothed, to a very satisfying end.

They'd dated for several months. John found his earlier hesitation melting away in Charlie's arms. It had broken his heart when Charlie took a job halfway across the country.

That was how he ended up dating women again. Whether it was intentional or not, he simply couldn't put himself in that emotional position again.

Now, being utterly besotted and miles away from Sarah, he wondered if he should abandon it. Well, wondered until he opened the letter and began reading.

'John,

I wish you were here too. I have a feeling you would be incredibly useful on cases. Beyond that, I have to admit, I simply wish you were here. 

I don't believe you'd be useless muscle. I could always use another pair of hands. Strangely enough, I don't believe I've ever said that to anyone in my life. You make me think such peculiar things.

I hope all is going well, as I'm not sure what I would do if it wasn't, and I'll write you again soon. After, of course, I have another story to tell you.

Yours,

S'

John clutched the letter in his hand, and tried to breathe. Fuck. No going back.


	9. Steak And Caviar

It was raining again. Not on the forecast, but it was London after all. Greg walked at a brisk pace, that day's newspaper held over his head and coat collar up. What he really wanted was a smoke. Sherlock had been acting odd again, talking to someone who wasn't there, and no matter how Greg had tried to persuade his team into looking the other way, he met resistance.

Sally was the first to snap, as was usually the case, calling Sherlock delusional and storming off. He'd only just got the rest back together when Sherlock insisted on leaving without giving them anything. He simply turned, looked Lestrade up and down, and said he needed to speak with John. 

John was the person he was mumbling to. John was the new phantom in his life, and Greg needed to know who he bloody was.

That, surely, was why he begrudgingly entered the sleek black sedan when it pulled up next to him. That and the rain, and not a bit more.

"If we end up in some dreary warehouse, I'm not leaving the car," Greg said, slipping in next to Mycroft's assistant and setting the soggy newspaper at his feet.

The woman tapped the divider and the car pulled away from the kerb. 

"You don't have any idea where we're going, do you?" Greg asked, sitting back and running a hand through his hair.

The woman knocked on the glass once more and it rolled down with an electric whir. A towel was handed through and Greg took it quickly, running it over his head and drying his hair as best he could.

"One day you'll talk to me," he murmured, almost as if to himself.

The assistant smiled and continued to be completely enthralled with her mobile.

Greg caught the smile and snorted, letting the towel hang around his neck and closing his eyes.

_____

When they pulled up outside a building with ornate pillars and men at the door Greg smiled and exited the vehicle, waiting for the assistant to do the same. Once she met him under the overhang they walked inside, Greg not missing the looks from some of the patrons.

"Friendly crowd," he grumbled under his breath.

They snaked their way to a smaller room near the back. The walls were quite possibly mahogany and the thick carpet was a deep red. Even the fireplace harkened back to a time Greg wondered if anyone in the building was old enough to remember. 

And there, sitting next to the fireplace with a glass of bourbon in one hand and his bloody pocket watch in the other, was Mycroft Holmes. 

The doors were summarily closed and Greg walked closer to the fire, fingers cold and reaching out reflexively.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said, turning and giving the man a once-over. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me."

"You do realise that sending a sedan to pace me isn't the same as an actual invitation, don't you?" Lestrade asked dryly, removing his coat and jacket and leaving them to hang over the back of a chair.

When he turned around he found Mycroft standing quite close. He looked over his shoulder guiltily and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said, face void of any emotion, "would you be so kind as to join me for a drink?"

"After the fact," Greg replied, voice soft.

Mycroft looked between his eyes and then to his lips. Greg swallowed and walked around him to the unoccupied chair in front of the fire. It felt like a win, if a small one. Especially so when he heard the scrape of wood as Mycroft pulled another chair close to him. If he was going to have a drink with the posh git, he was going to do it on his own terms.

A servant walked into the room and handed Greg a pint, already prompted by the other man as to what to pour. Greg pulled on it and closed his eyes.

"How is your wife?" Mycroft asked, looking into his glass.

"On holiday," Greg replied. "With the boy toy. You already knew that, though."

"You deserve better," Mycroft said, refusing to look up.

"Sure," Greg said, sighing and wondering why he'd got into the bloody sedan.

"Stay for dinner," Mycroft continued. "There's surely nothing for you at home."

That bit at Greg. 'In more ways than one,' he thought.

Mycroft watched him, wondering again at this gossamer thing between them. He felt attraction, yes, and that wasn't new, but there was something else. That other thing, confusing and pulling and stupidly unyielding, was what made him continue on with their little arrangement.

Arrangement was surely a more honest word than friendship, as Greg was adversarial at best around him. It wasn't as if he had no reason to be; Mycroft wouldn't stop being so bloody MI6 about everything. Greg was smart to be concerned, and that just made Mycroft more intent on him. 

Mycroft had been in relationships before, he wasn't a virgin in bed or in love, but it had been long enough that he was out of sorts with any form of courtship. The only thing he was sure of was that he wouldn't make a move until Greg was divorced. His contacts at the Yard told him that wouldn't be far off. The woman was in Barbados with her tennis student. It was less cliché than the usual, he would give her that. Either way, things were soon to snap.

'Show him that you care about him,' Anthea had nagged him earlier that day.

'I'll be pulling him out of the rain,' he'd responded. 'What shows more care than that?'

'You're the one that put his car in for a work order,' she'd shot back, 'so you're the one who put him there in the first place.'

'My influence goes far, my dear, but I can assure you I have no pull over the weather,' he'd said with a sneer.

She'd simply rolled her eyes, a move so disgustingly close to his own that he began to wonder if they spent far too much time together.

So, now he was taking her advice. He was feeding the man up. It was sickeningly sweet in his own mind. He wondered if it was too forward.

"What kind of food do they have in this place?" Greg asked, sinking back into his seat and running a hand through his hair. "I don't eat snails."

Well, maybe not too forward.

"What about steak?" Mycroft asked, eyes back on the bottom of his glass.

He saw Greg sit up in the corner of his vision and willed himself not to smile.

"And one to take home for wasting my time?" Greg asked.

Mycroft couldn't help it. He had to look at the man. When he turned he found Greg licking his lips with one eyebrow raised. A challenge.

"Why not eat half now and take the rest home?" he asked, not willing to give up so easily.

The left side of Greg's mouth pulled up at that. "Perhaps I'll order and then just eat off your plate."

Mycroft felt something fizz in his chest and couldn't help but lick his lips in return. "I have guards on the door," he said, voice low and dangerous.

"Oh," Greg replied, taking another long pull of his lager. "Didn't realise you'd have me arrested. How much caviar do you plan on ordering? Are we talking grand larceny or misdemeanor theft?"

Mycroft rose and retrieved two menus from the table behind them. Greg smiled to himself at the perceived win, or, at least, lack of loss, and looked his over.

"I never trust a menu without prices," he mumbled.

_____

When they were finally served, the second steak Greg hadn't really expected to get sitting in a primly wrapped package to his left, they both seemed to relax.

"Sherlock is talking to himself at crime scenes," Greg said, cutting into his steak and taking a bite. "Well," he added, chewing, "talking to someone who isn't there."

Mycroft pushed around his food with his fork and frowned. "John, by any chance?"

Greg cocked his head to the side. "How'd'ya know?"

"He has a pen pal, of sorts. I'm alerted whenever he receives a letter from out of country," Mycroft explained.

"Isn't that-" Greg started.

He stopped when Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"How did he get a pen pal?" Greg asked, picking at his potatoes.

"That, unfortunately, is a complete mystery," Mycroft replied, and then, when Greg looked shocked, "I don't READ the letters."

Greg snorted and continued eating.

"It's nothing to worry over," Mycroft assured. 

"Yeah, except the fact that he looks mad at my crime scenes," Greg scoffed.

"In-fighting?" Mycroft mused.

Greg shrugged. "Well, considering Sherlock's not really IN, I'd say not. Similar, though. Sally isn't taking it well. I think she figures that if he's acting odd, we can't trust him."

Mycroft sighed and sat back. He didn't really like Sally. Greg did, however, so it was shaky ground.

"Do..." Greg tried, shifting in his seat and trailing off.

"Do, what?" Mycroft asked, eating the last bite of his meal and setting his fork and knife on the plate, carefully crossed.

"Do people like you ever go to the cinema?" Greg asked, eyes aimed at the door.

Mycroft's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He swallowed once and then nodded.

"They're playing old French movie all night downtown," Greg said. "I was thinking of going. For...for a few hours."

Mycroft nodded again, this time less shakily.

"If you've nothing on," Greg said softly.


	10. Sarah

Sherlock paced. The case was good, nearly a seven, and he wanted badly for John to be there with him. There was something he couldn't parse about it, something only a doctor would see. He didn't want Molly. He wanted John.

It was hateful how far away he was, just hateful. He felt that he could close his eyes and John would appear in front of him. He would just materialize.

That, of course, didn't happen.

With a sigh, he made his way to the morgue. Molly was the only doctor around that would work with him, so she'd have to do.

The cab dropped him off in the pouring rain and he jogged to the front door. After shaking his greatcoat off he slipped inside, into the elevator, and quickly through the doors to the morgue. Molly was there, hair tied back with a bow, leaning over a corpse and humming to herself. He shook his hair out, knowing her eyes always stilled there for some reason, and cleared his throat.

Molly spun around, a flush already creeping onto her cheeks.

Sherlock smiled strangely and set the photos down on the table between them.

_____

The next hour Lestrade received a text from Sherlock. It came in five parts, due to the length, and explained everything that was needed to put the suspect that they had in custody away. Lestrade snorted and leaned back in his chair, turning his mobile off and throwing a smile at Mycroft before focusing back on the movie.

_____

A week had passed and, though the boredom wasn't terminal, Sherlock was itching for a case. He was in a rather good mood and thought that later that day he would pick up a cold case from Lestrade and pour over it into the evening. 

He was sitting in his chair speaking to John out loud as if he was sitting opposite, as he often did, when Mrs Hudson brought him the letter. He opened it quickly and started to read.

'Dear Sarah,'

It was the first time John had referred to Sherlock as Sarah since the first letter. Sherlock set the letter down and stood, pulling on his shoes and heading out into the nearly oppressive rain. 

"Why is it raining so BLOODY hard?" Sherlock groused, reaching his hand out to hail a cab and frowning violently.

Just earlier that day he'd thought that London was rather gorgeous that year. There were plants thriving and people keeping their heads down and opinions to themselves, and the city seemed to be particularly alive. Now, it all seemed hateful. How dare the rain fall? How dare the people walk close to him? How bloody dare they?

He slipped into the back of the first cab to come his way, barely waiting for it to come to a stop, and ground out an address, leaning back to stare daggers out the window. 

_____

Lestrade had been having a good day. His wife was back from holiday and he'd had the courage to tell her it was over, that he'd had enough with the lying and cheating. He felt particularly light in spite of the fact that his life was soon to grow rocky in the wake of their eminent divorce.

The good mood fizzled the second Sherlock walked into his office.

"Give me a case!" the man growled. "It's been a week since the Peter's murder and I'm bored out of my bloody skull!"

Lestrade took a deep breath and stood, going to close his office door and try to figure out what was wrong. Sherlock never cursed. Never. It wasn't a good sign.

"How about a cold case?" he asked, ready to start the bargaining.

"Why can't the criminals in this city do anything interesting? Do I have to move?" Sherlock hissed, pushing past Lestrade and pacing.

Lestrade sighed and crossed his arms. "Want to tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong! Why would anything be wrong? Nothing on earth is wrong, besides the incompetence of your staff and the stupidity of the local criminal class! Why would you suggest something like that? Why would you even suggest something was wrong?" Sherlock demanded, hands in his hair.

"You want the honest truth?" Lestrade asked, carefully staying just out of punching range, as he'd not seen Sherlock in this bad of a state since he had last been on drugs.

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't bore me with your platitudes."

"You've been nearly pleasant these last few months. You've barely yelled at my team once. So, when you barge into my office in a frenzy and shout at me, I have to assume something is wrong," Lestrade explained.

"You wouldn't understand," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. "And if you aren't going to help me, I'll simply have to find someone who will."

Lestrade had no idea what that meant. No one besides himself was willing to actually go out of their way to get Sherlock a case. Dimmock was accepting Sherlock more and more on his crime scenes, but he wouldn't offer anything.

Lestrade sighed as Sherlock stomped out of the room, and pulled his mobile from his pocket.

_____

Sherlock ended up walking in the rain for an hour, ducking below overhangs as best he could, but growing wetter as he went along until he was soaked. When he got home he trudged up the stairs and stripped, getting into a hot bath before it was even full and grinding his teeth.

Why had John done that? Why did he have to go and remind Sherlock of his stupidity. Calling him Sarah. 

Bloody hell, he'd got himself into something deep, hadn't he? He knew that it wouldn't last, knew that when John finally figured out who he really was he would dismiss him, but this was even worse.

He'd been enjoying himself, he'd been actually happy for the first time in years. And yes, yes, it was all based on a lie, and yes, that was quite possibly giving him an ulcer, but it was better than before John. Each time he remembered that John didn't know who he was he would simply convince himself that it didn't matter, that this was a ride he would have to get off at some point, but one he would allow himself to enjoy.

He'd created a version of John in his mind that he knew would never leave him and it was his intention to build on the John in his head until he didn't actually need the real one. He knew john wouldn't want to see him when he came back to London. He couldn't think of John dying in combat now that he knew the man. In all honesty, he was quite frightened that that might actually break his heart. He might never know. John might just cease to exist at some point. He might have to go begging to his brother for information, and, and-

And now the water was pouring over the edges of the tub and he was fumbling with the faucet and tossing all of his dry towels on the floor.

He cursed at himself and got out without actually bathing, too agitated to relax, and pulled a dressing gown around his wet body to stomp into the sitting room. The letter was where he left it, laying face up on the coffee table. He picked it up and began to read where he'd left off.

'A doctor has died in a firefight in a triage center in the Helmand province in Kandahar. I'm being sent out there in a fortnight. The fighting has been disastrous and they're low on supplies so I'm to be packed into a helicopter and shipped there nearly as cargo.

I know that might all seem inconsequential to you, but it means I won't be able to write as often. It doesn't mean I won't want to. You've become a part of my life that I don't want to go away.

Letters might take up to a month to get to you, and with all the injuries, fatal and non-fatal alike, I might not be able to write more than once a month. I hope you won't want to stop talking to me.

I have to go now, and wanted to get this letter out as quickly as possible. The new address is below.

I'll write you as soon as I can.

Wish me luck.

John'

All of the air had been sucked from Sherlock's lungs and he sat there barely breathing. John was in Kandahar. John was in danger.


	11. Doctor

He wished that his admission was brave, wished that he could look back on it once it was all over and be proud. It couldn't be brave, though, could it? Not with what he'd done. Everything that happened from that first letter on would be tainted with what he'd done, what he'd CHOSEN to do.

God, if he could return to that choice and do things differently. He would write back, yes, but as himself. A simple 'Sarah's long gone. Did you mention injuries?'. He wondered if that would have worked, if he could have pulled it off, because, yes, John did enjoy conversing with him, but surely he imagined breasts whilst doing so. 

He wondered if he would come off as quite as charming without those imagined breasts. 

He picked up a fresh bluey, set his pen to it, and told what was as close to the truth as possible. 

_____

The letter sat on John's bunk for three days, pushed under the pillow for the few hours that the thing was used, before he opened it. He'd been in Kandahar for almost a week and things were overwhelming, bodies stacking up. Rapid fire destruction all around.

He'd been waiting for some time alone, some time alone that wasn't spent sleeping or only just, to read the letter. He wanted to really focus on it, as it may have been the last. Yes, they'd got on, but once John didn't have the time to be charming, he knew that would stop.

He sat sideways on the toilet and apologised in his mind for reading the letter in that fashion. He wasn't shitting, at least, just occupying the space. It was quieter than the bunk and afforded him a place to cry if he needed. He wasn't sure he could stop himself from crying, at that point. He was bloody exhausted and worn thin and just couldn't assure himself that he wouldn't break down. He couldn't do that in front of the men. He couldn't.

So, yeah, he was on the shitter when he tore into the letter and started to read.

'John,

As much as I don't want to discontinue our correspondence-'

And, Christ, that sounded serious. He breathed and cursed to himself with a quick 'go on'.

'-I have to tell you the truth. I'm not who you think I am. Not in the least. I'm not the woman you want to come home to, not the woman you want to marry.

I'm sure this will come as a shock to you, but I beg you to think everything over before you make a decision. If you want to know the truth, I will tell it to you. If you're content writing to the person that I am, content to hear about my life and have no interest in secrets, then please, please write again.

I'm frightened for you. I'm frightened, and wracked with guilt because you want Sarah, the simple woman with no real interest in anything beyond the status quo. I can't be the doctor's wife. I can't be that person. Not even for you. I wish I could.

I remain,  
inexorably yours,  
S'

John laughed, laughed aloud and rubbed the tears from his eyes. God, that silly woman. Christ, and he'd thought she would give up on him.

It was all a bloody relief. He'd been going on and thinking to himself that he'd never be the man she thought he was, the hero doctor. He was barely staying afloat out there in the desert and the thought of coming back and trying to be the man she thought he was pulled at hidden places. The same places that always pulled tight when he felt he was wearing a mask. 

And he'd worried at being clever enough for her, charming enough. Now look at them both, scrabbling for purchase, barely hanging on and the other thinking stable ground alluded only them.

'Well, bollocks,' John thought, 'we'll be a bloody mess together!'

There was a loud rap on the door and he stood quickly, opening it and nodding to the man on the other side.

"They need you in surgery," the man said, saluting, "sir."

John tucked the letter into his breast pocket and jogged ahead, a bit more ready for what the day had to offer than he was earlier.

_____

When John had been admitted into medical school his father hadn't said a word. Not a single bloody word. The man had told him so many times over the years that he was meant to be in the army, that it was a legacy he couldn't tarnish. He'd told him he wasn't smart enough for medical school. He'd told him he was a fool for applying and that he'd see, he'd see what an embarrassment the whole thing would become.

Looking from the outside, it was apparent that John's father, Jack, was simply dealing with a mix of envy and rage. Truthfully, that was always the case with old Jack Watson. He'd broken enough bones to prove that a hundred times over. This particular bout of envy and rage was worse, though. It was wrapped tightly around one thought.

He's better than you.

It wasn't even a matter of 'he THINKS he's better than you,' no, it was definitive. He couldn't even lie to himself about it, his son was smarter than him. Smarter, and, as was becoming clear, kinder and more handsome. The handsomeness would have been fine if John had just been what he was meant to be; a cookie cutter version of Jack.

When his daughter had come out of the womb he knew they'd have to give it another go. No one wanted a woman in the military.

He'd had a friend whose wife would only have girls, one little girl after another, and he prayed the night he held Harriet for the first time that his wife wouldn't be the same. He NEEDED a boy. 

When John had been born, coming out slightly underweight but a man-in-the-making nonetheless, he'd cried. It was the only time he'd cried in the many years since childhood. It was all he hoped for.

John had always been a bit off, though, in Jack's opinion. He was too soft, too eager to help others. He'd been given a set of army men for his ninth birthday and made small casts and bandages for them with paper tape and bits of cotton. When asked what he was doing he answered simply that he was helping the hurt soldiers. Jack had scowled at him. John hadn't known why.

Things really went to hell when John was fifteen and Harriet was sixteen. She'd always been trouble, sneaking into the gin and staying out late, but the issue that threatened to tear the family apart was looked down on much more than any of that and, to Jack's mind, was more dangerous than the drinking. He had, after all, managed all those years with nothing bad to show for it than a red nose, in his opinion.

"What do you mean you've got a girlfriend?" Jack shouted, his wife crying right at the dinner table.

"I like girls, dad. Cunts and breasts," Harriet said with a false smile.

John looked between the two and wondered if she was actually trying to get beaten.

"You watch your fuckin mouth in this house, young lady," Jack howled, fists slamming into the table and threatening to upend the pint he'd been making a lazy way through.

"And what about your mouth," Harriet challenged, "who'll be watching it?"

Jack was up out of his seat and throwing fists, but not quickly enough that John couldn't interfere. He was the one that took the blows as Harriet got her things and jumped out the window, destined for the abandoned house that her girlfriend and a few others had taken shelter in.

She hadn't been seen for a month. At least, not at home. 

She went to school, John had been surprised at that. He'd meet her outside the abandoned house each morning and they'd walk together so that he knew she'd made it safe. He managed to launder her clothes without anyone noticing, bringing them to her in a garbage bag, folded neatly.

(When she did drift back home, she was was rougher around the edges and no longer avoiding her father's fists.)

John placed all his attention in his studies, knowing he needed to get out, and get out as soon as possible. He was able to graduate a year early, taking classes during the summer months just to stay away from his tumultuous home life. He was even able to win an award that covered the first year of medical school.

Each year that passed seemed to do so through tree sap; slowly and catching at the edges. John kept expecting to be found out, to have one of his professors look at him with sudden understanding and proclaim him the imposter he was. Surely, surely he wasn't meant to be a doctor. Surely he'd be found out.

Amazingly enough, that moment never came. He worked harder than he ever had, staying up much too late and living on a seemingly never ending reserve of coffee and caffeine tablets, and he found something out; he was good at it. He was actually good at it. 

He didn't know at the time that going to war would shake that feeling, that a battlefield was very different from the A&E, that he would doubt his ability with his mate's bodies in his arms. But that, that would come much later. In the meantime, he felt as if his father would come around. He was sure that the man would see him succeeding and be proud in a way he hadn't been since John was six and wanted to grow up to be just like the man.

He didn't talk to his father for five and a half years. His mother welcomed him home for Christmas and the like, fairy lights and other decorations giving the impression that things weren't dead silent inside the house. His father refused even to meet his eyes.

He was sick, John would have known that even without his soon-to-be degree. Sick and old and beaten down by a life that never quite rose to meet his standards. 

He would be dead within two years. Shortly after John had announced he was joining the military, an announcement that didn't bring with it any of the fanfare and acceptance he had hoped. The man was disappointed in John until his final day. 

It stung.

It stung, and convinced him that it was his role in life; the disappointment.


	12. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mini chapter, as it was all I had time to write. I've been like a chicken with my head cut off, as of late. Hopefully I'll get back on track.

He should have sent the letter earlier, should have confessed before John had been sent to Kandahar. He lasted a week before sneaking down the stairs and breaking into Sarah's flat.

She was out, with Todd and some friends, and Mrs Hudson was asleep. He skipped the tenth and second step, knowing they would creak and give away his position, and picked the lock. 

He could have made a key, he'd had his own copy while they were readying the flat for the possible tenant, but that would have gone against the whole reason for hiding his drugs below the floorboards there; ease of retrieval. Or, as is hopefully clear, lack of ease. 

He figured, and rightly so it seemed, as this was the first time he'd broken in since Sarah had moved in (although how much of his ability to abstain was to do with the distraction caused by a handsome army doctor was up for debate), that if the drugs were two storeys away and under semi-frequent surveillance he would be less likely to use. He hadn't counted on Todd, or his own ability to flummox his whole life up all over again. 

Emotional short-sightedness was Sherlock's blind spot. He tended to see his frame of mind as solidly built and standing on reason. His surety did him in every time, although this time he'd known he would use again, just not why.

Oh, the why. As always, it started with a lie.

Lying had always been the pull for him; it coming easily and believably to him even as a child. Lying was simple when further means of manipulation, methods much more likely to be found in his older brother's behavior, were difficult. Sherlock found the ease of lying and getting what he wanted thrilling at first, that was why he started, but once he became good at it he just found it second nature.

He lied to get more money when he spent his allowance on sweets and found the money in his pocket held more weight, he lied to get out of trouble at school and felt only slight superiority, he lied to John and barely even took notice.

Now, suffering from the ache in his stomach that had started with this whole fiasco, he got on his hands and knees and pried up the board just inside Sarah's bedroom closet. The box was sat there, covered in dust, looking completely unassuming. Nothing sentimental about it, just an old breaker box he'd lifted from the basement of his old building. It was empty, and a light beige, and it looked very much to be in the right place. He'd even fashioned bits of wire that went to nowhere. The only person that would have known it was out of place would be someone with a knack for electronics. Sarah, along with Mrs H, weren't so inclined.

He'd worried about Todd when the man was just a thing Sarah spoke of in passing, but once he'd met him it was clear that he was totally inept when it came to wires and the like. He worked at a flower shop. He cut and arranged roses and lilies and hadn't touched a fuse box in his short life. He was perfect.

Sherlock snatched up the box and put the board back, using his heel to bully it back into place, and left the flat as quietly as he'd entered.

Once in his own flat with the door closed he went into the loo and sat cross legged on the cold tile. He always did it there. He wasn't sure where he'd picked up the habit, surely it was before he'd had a steady enough flat for Mycroft to bug the rest of the rooms, but the cool floor felt like the right place for it. Standing up before the mirror was always a shock, but the lighting was better than his own closet floor, obviously.

His hands only shook as he opened up the back of the box. By the time the small packet was in his hands and the flat plate was on the floor in front of him, he could have been doing it with his eyes closed.

He poured the powder out, teased it into a line, and used the straw to suck it up into his nose, bent completely in half and ribs pressing into his calves.

He did actually close his eyes after he'd finished it, let himself breathe deeply for a second before putting everything back in its place and shoving it under the bath.


	13. Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: The second to last paragraph, the one that starts with 'Yesterday', contains VIVID description of a serious, fatal accident. If you don't want to read it, all you have to know about it will be in a note at the end. If you skip the paragraph you won't miss the meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: The second to last paragraph, the one that starts with 'Yesterday', contains VIVID description of a serious, fatal accident. If you don't want to read it, all you have to know about it will be in a note at the end. If you skip the paragraph you won't miss the meaning.

In what Sherlock felt was several hours, but was closer to twenty-three minutes, he was standing in his pants in his bedroom looking at the wall. In front of him, stuck on with a mismatched grouping of tacks, were ten different coloured strings going all about. He'd bought the string at a children's shop when it was on sale and had used it in enough cases to pay for it twentyfold.

The thing he'd created was a sort of map of the outcomes he was facing. There were three basic starting categories; accept, deny, and avoid. Each string started off in one of those three and fanned out to meet what he thought of as the best, second best, and worst outcomes.

He fiddled with the pin at accept and followed the string all the way to the best outcome. There, on a small piece of paper, he'd written 'John doesn't care that you lied. You're brilliant. He wants to meet you.'

He swallowed roughly. It all felt rather primary school now that he'd done it. He heard Sarah return home, the creak of the front door a dead giveaway, and pulled the whole of the project from the wall with a scrape of his hand, fingernails pulling at the wallpaper. Tacks flew everywhere and he twitched a bit as he went about stepping around them on his way to the front door.

He was halfway down the stairs before he realised he was still in his pants.

_____

It was just a relapse. Those happened. By the next day, Sherlock was back to himself. Well, himself but more shouty. He was still in a horrid mood, that should go without saying, but he was coping in a manner he was less disgusted with. 

The drugs, carefully packed up and hidden again in Sarah's flat, were on his mind almost constantly. That was why, he reminded himself, you don't go about falling off the wagon; because the fall is only the first bad bit. The fall left him with the word cocaine fluttering about his head unbidden. He'd be walking down the street on his way to the shops and his brain would remind him that cocaine would feel really good just then. He'd be in the middle of researching something and click on an advert for some sort of energy supplement, something he knew not to, and be bombarded with pictures of people looking ready to face the day. Cocaine, his body would remind him, would make him just as ready. He would even wake up and walk to the loo thinking he was on his way to do a hit, only to realize once he was sat on the floor like an idiot that the cocaine was far away and he wanted it to be that way.

He took on more cases, even cases he knew he wouldn't be interested in, just to keep busy. He nearly made three prospective clients cry and actually made another throw down the cup they'd been holding and storm out. He was beginning to get a more pungent form of the reputation he already had around the met, but online. He closed comments within the week, not willing to have interested subjects see tale of his disrespect.

The flat was very, very nearly burned down, firefighters bursting through the door and everything, the third week of waiting for the response from John, and Sherlock had to pay out of pocket for the house to be cleaned of the smell of smoke, on top of putting Mrs Hudson up in a hotel for three days while it was being done. She was, as always, frighteningly forgiving. Sarah, much less so.

It was the day after the cleaners had left, the smell still lingering slightly, that Sherlock received the response. He tore into it as if his life depended on it.

'Dear S,

You want to talk honesty? I'll be honest.-'

Sherlock felt the prick of sweat on the back of his neck as his stomach swooped to before unimaginable depths.

'I'm honestly exhausted. I should be asleep right now. I'm sitting up in my bunk writing and my eyes won't seem to focus. I don't think they should have sent me here. I don't think I should be the doctor here.

Bloody hell. I can't believe I even wrote that. It's been spinning round my mind for weeks now, weeks, but I couldn't admit it out loud. This is as close to out loud as it will ever come, I think.

And that's the thing! You act as though I could ever want to speak to anyone else, when you're the only one I'm able to be honest with. You act as though anything about you could make me want to stop writing. You could be a dog that's learned to hold a biro in its mouth and I'd be shocked, good trick, that would be, but I wouldn't stop. Whatever you are, whoever you think I don't want, I need you. Don't think I've ever needed someone before. 

I suppose that's a bit forward, putting you in that position. I shouldn't have to need you. I should be fine on my own. I feel a coward and a failure for needing you so much, but you're stuck with it.

So I promised myself I'd be painfully honest in this letter, even if that means it's our last.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why I thought going to war was a good idea. I thought A&E would be similar, but I've never seen the sheer volume of injuries that I'm seeing now. And, Christ, that's not even what has me up right now, that's not the image seared in my brain. But I'll leave that till the end, so you don't have to suffer through it if this is too much for you.

I'm out of my depths. I've spent my life being out of my depths. I come across confident, and sometimes I am, but at my core, at the very seat of me, I'm swimming upstream. And there, that might be what ends this. You're a genius and I'm trying my bloody hardest to stay afloat.

You give me something to hold onto.

Jesus Christ, if I'm being forward, I've fallen in love with you. I'm in love with you and you're so far away and before I left, I barely knew you. Now I feel like I know the real you. Please don't take that away from me. 

So, here goes. And tell me if you never want to hear from me again, yeah? Just so I know. So I'm not just waiting forever.

Yesterday there was an accident. It involved heavy machinery and a private I knew. I can't shake it. His leg got caught and he was spun around and Jesus, by the time I got to him he'd hit his head maybe fifty times. It wasn't even solid anymore. An accident. I could handle injuries caused by war, but this man, this boy, laying in my arms, already gone, was too much. I feel hollowed out, my insides scooped clean. I can't even cry. I feel like crying is what I should be doing, but I can't. I feel like everything has been taken out of me and I've been stuffed full of rocks. I don't know if I'll ever get over it. I may never be really human again, and the worst part is that seeing all those injuries, seeing all those men killed by the war I'm fighting, looking into the holes in their bodies and picking up pieces of them from the floor, that wasn't what did it. None of that really affected me. It took this to get me to feel.

So, there. If you still want to write to me, if you're still interested after all that, I'm bloody yours. I'm yours.

John'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The accident affected John when the injuries and deaths caused by the war only made him feel numb. He sees that as his failing to be human. He's worried he won't get over the accident.


	14. For Both Of Us

The paper suddenly seemed rather fragile in Sherlock's hands. He set it on the bed in front of himself, not sure how he'd got to the bedroom, and flattened it out with care. He really, he really should be more careful with letters sent to him by his...well, he ought to be more careful. His stomach lurched at the thought of how he had treated the envelope and he rushed out to find it.

He knelt next to it, mirroring the way he'd once knelt to help a wounded bird, and scooped it up. 

"Not horribly torn, now are you?" he asked, voice soft in a way it hadn't been in years. "We'll fix you right up. Nothing a bit of paper tape can't handle, now."

He turned the bent corner round right and walked to his desk, sitting crookedly on the chair and fishing around in one of the drawers until he found the tape. 

From behind him, standing like a statue in the doorway and unable just then to manage a single breath, was Greg. He'd been worried about Sherlock, knew he was taking pretty much any case, and had finally broken down and come by with a bit of a peace offering; a stack of late nineties' cold cases. What he saw, a muttering man crouched over a torn envelope, hair unruly and cooing at the paper, only worried him further. He watched as Sherlock taped the envelope and was thinking about leaving and just calling Mycroft when Sherlock convinced him he needed a sort of intervention right then; he'd kissed the paper. Kissed it.

Greg cleared his throat and Sherlock spun around. 

Now, in the several years that Greg had known Sherlock, he'd never once happened upon him unnoticed and got a smile in response. Frowns, screams, things thrown at him, and heaving sighed, yes. Smiles, no. You can imagine his confusion then, when he was met with just that. A smile, soft and contented.

"I, uh..." he said, choking a bit on his words and stalling altogether.

Sherlock chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes jovially for once. "Really, Lestrade," he rumbled, "out with it."

Greg swallowed hard and took a tentative step forward.

"I'm making tea," Sherlock said, closing the desk and walking to the kitchen.

"Oh," Greg replied, following a few steps behind as if worried the man might turn on him, literally, as well as figuratively.

"You've brought cases, I take it," Sherlock said, pulling two mugs from the cupboard and filling the electric kettle.

Greg sat and watched as he puttered around a bit. "Yes. I was...are you alright?"

Sherlock snorted and brought over a half-eaten box of digestives, tossing them down without ceremony and sitting across from Greg. "Of course I'm alright. I suppose this is where I ask why you would wonder such a thing."

"You've been taking Dimmock's cases again," Greg explained. "You even told him that you'd help him with the paperwork for the latest case if he could get you in on the disappearance I refused you. Paperwork, Sherlock. Paperwork."

"I was bored," Sherlock said dismissively, smiling softly and picking at his nails.

Greg started to wonder if maybe he'd been hit on the head. They didn't do lobotomies anymore, did they? He cleared his throat as Sherlock rose to prepare their tea. "Past tense. You aren't now. What's caught your attention?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, pouring the water and bringing the steaming mugs to the table.

"Jesus, Sherlock, something's not on," Greg huffed. "Do I really need to call-"

"I got a letter from my boyfriend," Sherlock sputtered, eyes flitting around the room. "I'm sure you know the feeling. How is my brother, but the way?"

"We aren't dating," Greg shot back.

"Yet," Sherlock drawled. "Stop boring me and show me the cases."

"You've got a...seriously?" Greg pressed, unable to leave the subject, even though his brain was yelling at him to drop it.

"He's an army doctor, if you must know. I was...it's been stressful for, for both of us, having him in such a dangerous area. We've been...we've been dealing with a lot of stress," Sherlock explained.

"Oh, oh, uh, sorry. That must be-" Greg tried, face twisted in sudden understanding. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock might be interested in a romantic...well, in any relationship. He knew how difficult it was for Sherlock to deal with normal people on a day to day basis, kind of made sense that he'd be a maelstrom when dealing with someone he cared for. The past few months were more understandable through this new lens. 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, setting down his tea and clapping his hands together. "Now show me the cases."

Greg nodded and finally took his hand from his mobile in his pocket. He opened the first file and started to explain, his mind whirring all the while.


	15. Keep Going

Writing the letter was difficult. He wanted to tell John that he'd never felt the way he felt then, that he was handsome and wonderful and he wanted him more than life itself. Hyperbole on the last bit, but still. Every time he put his pen to paper, flowery language seemed to spill from him. It was embarrassing. He wanted to tell John how he felt without seeming mad, and everything he wrote had a tinge of madness. 

After scrapping the fifth bluey, the word devoted looking strange, he decided to read back over all of their letters. What came out the next time he set about writing felt more genuine than he had intended. He posted it anyway.

_____

John opened the letter the second it came in, bolting himself in his small office and walking in circles. His heart was beating out of his chest and he felt slightly ill. Christ. Oh, Christ.

'John,

Your first letter was a surprise. I admit that I only wrote back to amuse myself, as my boredom was starting to make my skin itch. I never intended to start up a correspondence with you, let alone one that would encompass so much.

I wanted to hear about the injuries. I was only interested in myself. 

It was odd getting a letter back from you and having it be so different from the first. I didn't know who you were, had no idea how you might respond. And then, then you gave me exactly what I wanted. What I wanted and more. The sketches are framed above the mantel in my sitting room and I often look at them late into the night.

So, I'm in a bit of a state. You gave me more than I could have hoped for, more than I knew I wanted. I'd become so used to being alone, so used to talking to only myself. To have someone come in and break the silence in such a remarkable way has been shocking. I'm almost angry with you for shifting my entire world. 

I was comfortable being alone. I don't think I'll find that comfort again. At least, not in solitude. I believe I've found it in you, a definite comfort.

So, you see, your last letter shook me. How you could ever think yourself unworthy is a mystery. You are, in every breath, more human than I could ever hope to be. You are, in every beat of your heart, more caring. You are, in every moment, worthy of love and respect. You have both from me. 

You may feel out of your depths, but that's okay. You speak as if it's a fault. You jump, head first, into danger and struggle your way through and that's more than most people could say, you have achieved more than most will ever achieve. You are a marvel.

I don't often find myself out of my depths, but with you I am adrift in a sea. Nowhere can I see land. My emotions run wild and all I can do to dampen the anxiety at having you so far away is to work until I get another letter. I've not been so unsure in my life and, as I'm certain you've come to know a bit of my personality at this point, you can see that is a strong statement. I don't know how to proceed, how to get you to write back. All I know is to be myself and to hope that is enough. 

What you're dealing with is shock, in case you haven't figured that out yet. The fact that you're in shock proves that you're human. The fact that an accident pushed you over the edge is unsurprising. Your compartmentalization makes you a good doctor, but no one can expect what you saw. No one.

All I can do at this point is be selfish once again. All I can do is ask that you keep going, that you hold on. Even if it's not me that you return to, even if I end up left behind. Please keep going. Breathe, eat, grieve, try to sleep, and keep going.

Yours always,  
S'

John felt his legs give way and he found himself quite suddenly in a sobbing heap on the floor. He could barely pull in a breath, for the heaving, blubbering mess he'd become. And God, God, it felt good. It felt good to scream, even as he muffled it in his forearm, thick cotton sticky with saliva, felt good to weep.

The knots in his stomach seemed to ease as he choked and shook. 

When he finally managed to sit up again the sobs lightened and he read the letter over again. Christ. The words were so sweet he could almost believe them, almost believe he was as good as Sarah thought.


	16. Home

John conceded to seeing the army shrink, after the chaplain didn't manage to bring him any solace. He was a gruff man, which helped. John didn't know what he would have done if confronted by some gentle and open person who acted like he could emote around them. He would have probably kept his bloody mouth shut.

Dr Willar was different. He'd been in the army, used it to pay for the schooling that got him his degree, and he hadn't just been on the sidelines. He'd seen action, a great deal if you went by the hushed conversations around the base when he arrived.

The first time they met was a day John felt he shouldn't be taking off. The man could sense that.

"You'd rather be in surgery," he said, hands clasped around a clipboard and watching John carefully.

John simply sat there.

"I understand the need to work. I was the same way. Don't think I've even let that go now. But here, in this room, you have to talk honestly," the man insisted. "I've got a lot of men and women to see, so I won't stand for wasted time."

John breathed out through his nose and nodded.

"Tell me about you. About your support group."

"A support group of one," John said, surprising himself.

"Do you talk to them about all this? About how it really is to be at war?" 

"Actually, yes," John said, looking to the floor.

"And is that enough for you?" 

"Yes, sir," John said, nodding forcefully.

"Then what you're missing is sleep," Dr Willar said, starting to write something down. "I'll write you something for that, and then you'll come in every week and talk to me about that person, the person who supports you."

John shifted in his seat and the man looked up quickly, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"Yes, sir," John replied quickly.

His mouth went dry the second he had the prescription in his hand. He'd never been interested in taking medication, and his family always seemed to discourage it. The idea of taking medication for a mental problem was so distasteful that he couldn't even form the words 'mental problem' in his head.

"It's just for sleep," Dr Willar said, cutting through his thoughts. "Sometimes doctors need to take something for sleep. I've prescribed four pills. Four nights of sleep, and I think you'll be fine."

John felt better about that, eyes finally able to focus on the small piece of paper. Four nights. He could do four nights.

_____

John was writing a letter back to Sherlock three weeks later when he realised that he actually felt awake. Not refreshed, per se, no one ever felt refreshed in a war zone, but awake. He didn't have to fight the drooping of his eyelids and he'd only had one cup of coffee that day. He almost felt like crying.

'I think I've made it over the hump,' he wrote. 'I think I can see clearly now.'

_____

Sherlock received the letter and steamed it open, unwilling to damage it even with a letter opener.

'Dear S,

Your letter was a relief. There's nothing I want more than to be there with you, and I promise when I'm on leave I will be-'

Now, Sherlock had been foolish in all this, but with the letter he wrote dangling a secret in front of John he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew that his letter had been vague enough as to avoid the fact of his actual identity. John's response had left him back at the beginning again. He'd been hoping that John would force his hand, as he found himself an utter coward.

And now he'd gone and told Lestrade that he had a boyfriend. It had barely been a lie at the time, at least a conscious lie. John surely felt they were in a relationship, there was just the matter of his cock, and the fact that he wasn't Sarah.

He wondered then if John would be angry if he'd been some other woman, if the medicine would go down a little smoother that way. His fear was that it would, that the thing that would break this would be his gender.

And now John was talking of coming home on leave and he was realising that he would either have to admit his deceit or be conveniently out of country. He was disgusted with himself by how quickly the decision was made in his head. Perhaps France would be nice...whatever time of year John would be coming.

He swallowed and continued to read.

'I've managed to follow your directions fairly well, to my own surprise. After a few consecutive nights of sleep I'm back on my feet. I've been talking to someone as well. Not exactly something I'm proud of, but there it is. The funny thing is, we mostly talk about you.-'

Sherlock curled in on himself, a smile pulling at his lips, and closed his eyes.

_____

That night, after reading the rest of the letter, it recounted a few injuries and stories of strange things that had happened in the surrounding villages, Sherlock found himself in bed thinking about John.

It wasn't the first time that thinking turned into a slick heat in his abdomen, something that felt almost dangerous in its intensity, and it wasn't the first time he'd given in to it and spent himself frighteningly fast over his own hand, but this time he was half asleep and the thoughts turned into a fully formed scene.

He let his hand slide down and under the waistband of his pants and sighed as he took himself in hand. In his mind John sighed back. It was the John from the video; all nerves and charming fumbles. John giggled a bit and sat back in his seat, legs falling open.

"Tell me about the case," John said, hand slipping to where his cock was pressing against the thick material of his uniform. "Tell me how you solved it."

Sherlock groaned and started to stroke his cock in earnest and his imaginary John giggled again.

"Too far gone to explain? I understand, I understand. You worked so hard today, didn't you? Running after baddies like you do," John said, smirking.

Sherlock nodded and rolled his hips. 

John shifted in his seat, seemingly affected by Sherlock's position. "How about I tell you how I think it all went down, yeah?" 

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured.

"I think you bullied your way onto the scene, pushing Lestrade that much closer to an early grave, and told everyone what they'd got wrong. Nod if I'm right, love."

Sherlock nodded.

"Thought so." John licked his lips and went on. "And then you saved the best bit for yourself, didn't you? You kept one little part of it for yourself because you're greedy."

Sherlock breathed roughly through his nose and nodded. He always kept some clue for himself, always.

"And that's the bit that got you into the alley with him, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded furiously and started thrusting his hips up.

"Because you're mad," John said, voice getting rough as Sherlock heard the sound of a zip being pulled down. "My mad genius."

"Yours," Sherlock agreed. "Please, John."

"Oh, want to skip to the best part, then? Fine with me. You hit the man upside the head, managing to get out of there without a lick of paperwork, and came home to me."

"Yes." Sherlock thought, his mind spinning around the word 'home' uttered in John's voice.

"And now you're going to come for me, aren't you?" John asked, his voice rough.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and nodded, stroking himself sloppily and biting his lip. It took less than fifteen strokes to get there, to tip over the edge. And then, after clumsily removing his pants and wiping his hand, he fell asleep to the sound of John breathing next to him. Almost.


	17. S is for Sherlock

Two weeks later, Sherlock received a letter from John's commanding officer. It was addressed to Sarah and held the news that John had been shot while assisting a group of men on a recon mission. He'd been shot. Shot in the shoulder and recovering before he could be sent home.

Discharged. Sent home for good.

_____

A month later Sherlock was hovering outside John's hospital room, his location gleaned through a series of extremely rare requests of Mycroft. John was asleep but the nurses had told Sherlock that he could go in and wait for him to wake.

Really, though, how could he? How could he go into that room on John's first day back in London and ruin everything for the both of them?

Bloody hell, he had to do it anyways, if only to see John in person for the first time.

He stepped in and went to sit in the plastic, uncomfortable looking, chair next to John's bed. He fidgeted, eyes still on the floor, unable to look up. It was all he could do to cup his slowly cooling coffee in his hands, the paper of it growing cold. When he heard John rouse he finally had to look.

John was in pain, obvious pain, and that did something very uncomfortable to Sherlock's insides, twisting something in him and causing him to reach to the side of the bed and rest his hand there. John blinked his eyes open and grimaced, taking a shuddering breath and swallowing roughly.

When he noticed he wasn't alone he tried to sit up, a move that caused him to grunt in pain.

"Stay still, John. Please stay still. I'll, I'll, um, get a nurse," Sherlock sputtered, standing awkwardly and almost tripping over his own feet.

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat and trying again, "sorry, do I know you?"

"That's, that's a question for another-" Sherlock tried. 

"I'm fine, just...leave it," John interrupted, laying back down and sighing. "Are you from the business office? I heard one of you was coming in for me to sign some papers. I legally have another week before you can kick me out, you know."

"No, I'm..." Sherlock said, drifting off in the end.

John looked at him, exasperated.

Sherlock felt as though he was going to be sick as he finally took the bull by the horns. "I'm a dog that's learned to hold a biro in its mouth."

John wrinkled his nose and cocked his head to the side, looking utterly perplexed. When it finally hit him that this man, this stranger, knew what he'd written his face fell.

"How the...how were you reading our letters?" he demanded, heart pounding.

"Well, writing," Sherlock said, choking a bit on the words and smiling nervously. "And you did say you'd accept me, no matter-"

John's eyes shot wide and he tried to sit up again. "What are you, what are you saying? Who the bloody hell do you think you-"

"S," Sherlock said, still smiling strangely as his brain swam in anxiety and he tried not to pass out. "It stands for Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"How did you...no. No, I don't even care. I don't even-get out. Get bloody out," John growled, voice turning into a shout at the last two words.

Sherlock nodded once, shuffling his feet, and then spoke to John, for possibly the last time. "Well, it was good to finally meet you. I'll just." He turned slowly and then turned back to face John, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. "You should know I meant everything I said."

"Get out," John reiterated, and Sherlock did.

_____

It should have been...it wasn't, well, it wasn't really a surprise. It was clear that John wasn't the type of man to ignore such a slight. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't expected it, but as he found himself rounding on an alley far out of town, empty paper cup dangling from his hand and feet aching, it hit him all at once. He vomited down the building wall, cup falling as his hands went to scrabble for purchase.

_____

John couldn't stay in the hospital any longer. He was only there because he'd been doing intensive physio, anyhow. He had to, he had to bloody leave.

He checked himself out that day and made his way across town to the bedsit that was sitting empty awaiting his arrival. He was stiff, and cross, and in pain from lugging his laptop and set of clothes all the way there on the tube. Christ, if he didn't want to just kip until evening, but the bed had no linens and his contact was bringing him things to get settled and it would take a few hours. 

He sighed and sat at the small desk, civilian clothes itching at his skin, and opened his laptop. 

He was going to look the arsehole up. Just...out of curiosity.


	18. The 'How'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to ease the pain.
> 
> On a side note, I received a comment a while back from a reader who was concerned that they might not speak English well enough. It was deleted before I could respond, so I'll respond here:
> 
> I'm so glad you like the story. Your English is fine, better than passing. I've learned French and Spanish and have to let you know how incredible you're doing. Keep trying, keep learning new words and practicing, and if anyone gives you trouble let them know they can go to hell. 
> 
> Come back and comment again. If you want it to be private, I won't post it, but know that you're welcome here. None of my readers would mock you, and neither would I. 
> 
> -Kate

The case write-up was horrible. There weren't any real explanations. He'd written, 'I knew it by the man's shoes', but not how. John grimaced and scrolled down the screen. He wanted to shout, had a strange fission of something running through him, and because of that fission, and possibly the pain medication, he did something completely erratic. 

The line rang and an angry voice picked up. "What?"

"The how is the best part," John said, surprising himself and standing suddenly, as if to get away from the open laptop and Sherlock's words.

There was silence and then a cleared throat and John felt as if he really ought to be hitting something just then.

"I'm sorry, come again?" 

The voice spoke with such softness, such frank apology and need for understanding, that John knew Sherlock had recognised his voice.

"I was...I was looking at your blog. Science of Deduction," John said, going to sit on the naked bed, look at the naked far wall, and feel quite naked himself.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered, really just a rush of air.

"And your...your writing is awful," John sputtered, wanting to turn the blade a bit as the man on the opposite end of the line was being so damn GENTLE. "You said you knew who the killer was because of the shoes, but you didn't say how. The how, Sherlock," he added, trying the name out on his tongue, "that's the interesting part. Without the how, it's just bloody bragging."

"We could...that is, I could tell you about the case over coffee," Sherlock ventured.

John was really, truly angry then. How dare this man be so agreeable, so soft and frightened and fragile? He wasn't allowed fragility after what he'd done to John. 

"No," John stumbled, biting his lip so hard he tasted copper, "no, just, just fix the blog."

Sherlock was silent on the other end for a while, and then cleared his throat again. "Alright, John."

"Good," John huffed, something in his chest twisting round. "Good."

"Is that...is that all, John?" Sherlock asked.

And hope, God, there was hope in that voice. 

It did surprising things to John to hear his name spoken like that. When he'd imagined this, when he'd imagined being home and seeing S, the voice had been much higher. He almost laughed aloud at the thought; Sherlock did have an impossibly deep voice. Like molasses. Deep and...

"Yes," he barked, and then, pulling it back a touch, "yes."

For a long time, an absurdly long time, they sat there on the phone listening to each other breathe. It wasn't pornographic, they weren't panting or moaning, so it was a strange thing to do. John, though, found he couldn't stop, found he was listening to both sets of breathing now and remembering in a truly astonishing way that he himself was alive. He was alive, and he was home, and he was on the phone with this absolute berk, but he was alive.

"Maybe, maybe some other time. The, um, coffee," he said pinching himself and scowling as he did.

There was a pause, and then, "goodnight, John."

John nodded curtly and looked out the window, noting that the sun had gone down after all. "Goodnight, Sherlock."


	19. Bored

John couldn't sleep that night. He lay awake watching lights move across the ceiling and tried to convince himself to feel lucky that he finally had a window. It felt even more a prison than the hospital had, though. At least at the hospital he could pretend he was just a doctor on break.

And, yeah, that wasn't a train of thought to go down, now was it? His brain started reminding him that the position he'd always convinced himself he'd come home to (respected surgeon with years of military experience) wasn't going to happen. At best, he'd end up being a GP. At worst, a GP. Christ. Christ. Maybe if he took out several loans he could find a specialty, a specialty that allowed for PTSD and a bloody limp.

He sat up, finally done having that bloody conversation with himself, and hobbled over to the small desk.

_____

Several minutes later, across town, Sherlock received a message on his blog. He'd been furiously updating it since he'd spoken with John, and was six months back at that point. It was the only way he could keep himself from pulling his own teeth out, or felt that way.

He opened it and sat back.

'This is better. Sorry if I was rude today. I've had a bit of a shock. -John'

Sherlock's fingers were moving before he could even think, typing away what his mind had been spinning around for hours.

'I'm sorry. S'

Three dots appeared, noting that John was writing back, and Sherlock held his breath.

'You really are a consulting detective, then? These are real cases? It wasn't all a ruse? -John'

'Very little of it was,' Sherlock typed back. 

'Are you on a case now? Cause it's the middle of the night, you know. -John'

'And I'm not the only one awake. But, no. No case at the moment. Lestrade said he had something for me, but today was rather busy,' Sherlock replied.

'Well, I suppose I'll just have to look out for the next post, then. -John'

'I could always send you information on it, the next one. If you were interested,' Sherlock replied quickly.

'I think you mean bored. And yes, I'm bored. And you have my number. -John'

'I do,' Sherlock typed, and then, after thinking it over, added, 'I'll talk to you soon, John.'

There were no more replies. Sherlock sat, eyes glued to the screen, for at least twenty minutes in hope, but nothing more came.

_____

They hadn't spoken for a week. The case Greg had been eager to give Sherlock was shit. Simple case of jealousy turned deadly. The killer hadn't even tried to flee, and Sherlock ended up very angrily walking home at the finish.

He needed a case! An interesting case! He needed something to convince John that he was still worth talking to. 

His angry stomping was what did him in. Surely, without it he wouldn't have stepped so solidly on that nail. And now, now it was stuck completely through his shoe, somehow missing his foot almost entirely.

He sat on the stoop and slid his foot out, amazed at how the nail had even passed through his sock. It wasn't so much a shock as something more in a string of bad luck that he'd had coming forever. Perhaps it was karma. If he wasn't going to be struck down in the street by a car, then apparently he was going to have a perfectly good pair of shoes ruined.

He walked upstairs, past Mrs Hudson speaking on the phone in the hall, and to his chair, where he sat to look at his foot some more. And damn, if there wasn't a bit of blood. It was just a scrape, really, but a scrape with a rusty nail. He was about to google how likely he was to get tetanus when he had a better idea.

The line rang twice before John picked up.

"Hello?" John asked, sounding exhausted.

"I've been scraped with a rusty nail and I'm not sure when my last tetanus shot was," Sherlock explained without preamble.

"Go to A&E," John said, sighing.

Sherlock shifted in his chair a bit. "Can't risk it. You know it's full of people who are leaking all manner of bodily fluids. If I get taken with something and end up in bed for a week, what do you think will happen to the criminal class?"

"I have a feeling you want me to imagine some sort of evil party," John said.

"Imagine what you like, John. I'm in serious danger here," Sherlock said. And yes, he knew it wasn't the best idea to be lying again so soon, but he thought John could tell it was a bit of a lark.

There was a long pause before John replied. "Hang on, you're not hoping I'll catch a cab to your place and look at it?"

"Now that you bring it up, that will save us both time," Sherlock said, heart hammering away.

"Won't save me a damn thing," John shot back with a snort. "But..."

"But you're bored and a scraped foot will be the most action you've seen in over a month," Sherlock answered quickly.

There was silence again and Sherlock held his breath. He wasn't sure what was pushing it, wasn't sure how much nagging John could take.

John cleared his throat and breathed in. "I suppose I have your address."

"I'll make tea," Sherlock spat, standing so quickly in his excitement that he knocked his foot into the coffee table with a yelp.

"Okay, drama queen," John said, "I'll be right over."


	20. Tea and Cucumber Sandwiches

The added sound of the cane on the stairs made John cringe. It was strange to feel as if he wanted to impress Sherlock, when what he should have wanted was to forget him.

'He's not the person you were in love with,' he told himself silently as he made his way up the stairs. 'You were in love with a lie. It doesn't matter that the lie was comfortable. You can't trust him.'

He was shocked for a moment as the door swung open dramatically and the man in question loomed in front of him. He stood a bit straighter, affected by their height difference, and squared his shoulders. He was going to be stern. He was going to tell Sherlock that this was all more than a bit off, look at his foot and leave.

All that went right to hell when their eyes locked. There was such fear in Sherlock's, such discomfort, that John fell right into doctor mode and tried to soothe his patient.

"Sit down, now," he said, leading Sherlock to his chair and forgetting his cane by the door.

"It's not...I shouldn't have asked you over," Sherlock stuttered.

"Oh, stop with that," John replied, kneeling and taking Sherlock's foot in his hands.

Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John pulled out an alcohol swab and a plaster from his pocket and went about cleaning. 

"Did you keep the nail?" John asked, placing the plaster and setting Sherlock's foot down carefully. "I'd like to have a look at it."

Sherlock pointed to the coffee table and John rose with a grunt to retrieve the ruined shoe. He was about to speak when he turned around, but his voice gave out when his eyes fell on the far wall. 

Christ, Sherlock hadn't been lying about that bit. There they were, his drawings in frames that outshone them tenfold. He couldn't stop himself from walking across the room and reaching up.

"These frames are really wasted on them," John said, voice somehow sad.

"They're not," Sherlock disagreed, standing and shuffling up next to John. "They're gorgeous."

"They're just sketches," John sighed, chest tightening a bit as he felt the warmth of Sherlock's arm next to his.

"I like them," Sherlock said, softly.

John felt as though he was insulting the man's taste in art then, and wasn't that peculiar? He couldn't bring himself to glance over, so he kept his eyes on the wall, forcing them to stay between the frames.

"I forgot to make tea," Sherlock admitted after a long few moments.

"I'm very angry," John admitted in return, voice shaky. "Quite cross."

"Justifiably so," Sherlock breathed.

"How can you...how can you expect me to forget that? How am I supposed to ever trust you?" John pressed, eyes falling closed and hands clenching.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied honestly. "I didn't think we'd ever talk again."

John sighed and shifted his feet. "I must have been quite the impressive fool."

"John."

"No," John replied, growing more agitated. "What were you going to do when I came home on leave? Wear a dress?"

"Leave the country," Sherlock spat.

John snorted humorlessly. "Yeah, I suppose I meant that little to you."

Sherlock shook his head and took another step closer, the soft silk of his shirt pressing against the cotton of John's jacket. "That much."

"Yeah, meant so much you didn't want to even see me," John said with a sneer. Because, of course, no one would really love him. Of course he wouldn't be enough.

Sherlock breathed unsteadily. "I was going to run away to France so that I could continue to write to you. I knew...I knew once I met you it would all be over."

"Yeah, well," John said, drifting off.

"You wrote the address wrong," Sherlock all but whispered.

John turned at that and frowned.

"Sarah used to live downstairs. 221C."

"Oh," John exploded, "I see! It's my fault, is it? Stupid John can't manage to get an address right!"

"No, no, I mean, that's how I got the first letter. It was my fault. I shouldn't have written back," Sherlock said, taking a cautious step back.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John said, hating himself all the more for his outburst. "Maybe...maybe tea would be good."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, looking as though he was about to say something important, and then left. John walked over and sank into the sofa, playing with the skewered shoe and trying to breathe normally.

"Oh, you must be our mysterious soldier!" came a woman's voice from the doorway.

John sat up and set the shoe down, standing and holding his hand out on instinct alone. The woman walked up to him and took his face in her hands, smiling at him before kissing him on the cheek.

"You had us worried sick, you did," she chirped, "getting shot like that. Poor Sherlock didn't eat on his own for weeks, but of course he rarely eats otherwise, you know."

John looked over to Sherlock, where he was standing in the kitchen, and was struck once again by how fragile he seemed. A grown man in finely milled wool trousers and a starched shirt, standing in that small, crowded kitchen with no shoes on. John thought he looked out of place in his own home for a second before he realised how utterly untrue that thought was. The flat was lonely and fragile as well, wasn't it? Packed full of things but empty, all the same.

"Well, that certainly wasn't the intent," John said, trying to show Sherlock with his eyes how true it was.

"Now you're back, love," the woman said, walking to the entry and retrieving the tray she'd brought up, "that's all that matters."

John followed her to the kitchen as she made a space on the table for the tray. It was piled with cheeses and finger sandwiches and biscuits and jam. She held a sandwich up to John and smiled as the man took it and started to eat.

"Cucumber," she whispered. "Our boy's favorite."

John swore he could see the back of Sherlock's neck flush, as he sat at the table. 

"I'm Mrs Hudson, by the way," the woman added as she went to leave. "I'm sure he forgot to mention that bit in the letters."

"John Watson," John replied.

"Of course, dear," she added with a smile. "Our Doctor Watson."

John swallowed and sat back as she left. She knew who he was, and, more than that, who he was to Sherlock. It was complete a surprise.

"You told your mum about me?" he asked, turning back to look at Sherlock.

"Landlady," Sherlock corrected.

John smiled a bit. "Landlady, then."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, bringing the tea to the table.

"Why on earth would you do that?" John asked, smiling openly for the first time.

"You're the most important person in my life," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the table.

"Oh," John replied, stomach turning a bit. It hadn't actually occurred to him that Sherlock was really in love with him. He was still thinking of it as some bizarre experiment.

"Tea's ready," Sherlock said, hand snatching up a finger sandwich, eyes still on the table between them.

They sat in silence for a long while before there was a knock on the door. The person knocking didn't wait for a response, and, instead, broke into the room with a sigh.

"Bloody last thing I need is-" The man stopped speaking and looked between Sherlock and John for a few seconds.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, gesturing, "this is Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"John," John corrected, holding his hand out.

"Greg," Greg said with a confused smile.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Need your help on a case. Didn't mean to interrupt," Greg explained.

"That's fine," Sherlock said, standing and going to the bedroom to fetch a nail-free pair of shoes, "I think we could both use a little air."

John looked between the two men and then rose to his feet, filling one of the cloth napkins with food and following Sherlock to the coat rack. 

"Both of you?" Greg asked.

"Un-negotiable," Sherlock shot back, standing a bit taller and obviously feeling more himself.

A stupid smile spread over John's lips as he realised he would be going on a case, on a case with S. On a case with Sherlock Holmes.


	21. The Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated

They were met with scowls when they arrived on the scene, reminding John that Sherlock had a tumultuous relationship with his sort of coworkers. He hung back a bit, though he was feeling a strange mix of affection and protectiveness.

"Who's he?" a constable asked as they approached, nodding towards John but speaking to Sherlock.

"Dr John Watson. He'll be assisting me today," Sherlock said smoothly, reaching for a pair of gloves and handing them to John.

"What?" a thin man squawked from a few steps away, "he's real? We all thought you'd gone mad."

"Still do," the woman said.

"Sherlock," Greg shouted, interrupting the juvenile behavior and stopping Sherlock from saying anything they all might have regretted.

John followed Sherlock onto the house and wondered again at how Sherlock had actually mentioned him to the people in his life. It was a difficult thing for him to wrap his head around, but...now that he thought about it, he'd bragged about Sarah. Remembering made his stomach clench and he kept his head down. 

'Not the time, Watson,' he thought.

When he came back to himself, he was being handed a paper suit, blue and plasticised. He stumbled a bit setting his cane aside and pulled it on with a groan. His shoulder was pinching in places and it reminded him of things he'd rather not think on.

"Aren't you going to-" John started to ask as Sherlock paused to wait for him.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and John scrunched up his nose, but followed.

The body was hanging from a rope attached to a sturdy looking wooden beam. John watched as Sherlock walked right up to it and pulled out a small magnifying glass. He had to admit what an utterly handsome figure Sherlock cut, dark curls and dark coat. Almost intimidatingly handsome. 

John shook himself from the thought, feeling a bit disappointed in himself that his brain had gone in that direction whilst in the company of a murder victim, and joined Sherlock. He stood awkwardly next to the man, hands clasped behind his back and ramrod straight. He felt out of place, redundant. He was about to actually ask if he should leave when Sherlock started speaking to him.

"Tell me what you see," Sherlock said, fingers hesitating as they pulled down one eyelid. John moved forward and looked where he was staring.

"No petechial hemoraging," he said, only then realising how close he was to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock smiled softly to John in the next breath, eyelashes fluttering. And, God, how could John have not been affected by that, how could he not have felt a tightness in his chest? He licked his lips and Sherlock's smile broadened. For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to try to kiss him.

"Murder" Sherlock gushed when Greg had retreated, saying the word in such an emotive way, the way a lover might say their partner's name, that John's prick took keen notice. "Meant to look like suicide. Oh, John."

That really did it. John forced himself to take a step back, unable to be that close to someone speaking his name so seductively, whether in response to the macabre or not.

"Should we, um, that Greg guy," John said, clearing his throat.

Sherlock's smile turned conspiratorial and he leaned towards the body again. "We'll tell him when we suss out the suspect. Cause of death, Doctor?" he whispered, unaware of the multiple uses of the word 'we' and his almost complete conviction that he and John were now a team. 

"Isn't that a bit-" John started, looking over his shoulder to where the detectives were huddled.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "They'll figure it out in a few hours. It's not strictly withholding evidence. We just need a head start."

John looked over the body, finally noting the needle mark in between the man's pointer and middle finger. "Injection of some kind. The blood work will tell. And now...what? We go running around the city?" John asked, his shoulder hurting even at the thought.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, pulling the gloves off and tossing them into the far bin. "You don't by any chance have a laptop, do you?"

Now was John's turn to roll his eyes. Of course Sherlock knew that he had a laptop. How else would they have exchanged messages in the middle of the night?

"You could have found my website on your mobile, you know," Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh," John supplied stupidly.

He didn't have much time to feel so, though, as he was being dragged from the room by Sherlock's retreating presence soon after.

_____

They stopped by John's bedsit on the way to Baker Street and John was relieved when Sherlock stayed in the cab, tapping away on his mobile and barely giving John's exit a glance. The empty space was painful to be in, even with linens on the bed and new curtains. He got his laptop as quickly as possible and left, sticking his revolver in his waistband at the last minute after remembering Sherlock's first case.

It was on the way to the cab, in the poorly lit stairwell leading to the road, that John recognised that he'd just thought of the case as Sherlock's, that he no longer thought of Sarah when thinking of this line of work. He supposed that wasn't all so bad, as meeting such a striking character as Sherlock would make others slide quickly to the background. Add in that he'd also just spent several hours in close quarters with the man, and it wasn't really a sign of how he felt, was beginning to feel, so much as the normal reordering of thoughts. Nothing magical, that is, nothing telling.

The moment he was back in the cab headed towards Baker Street, the magical feeling had returned. Sherlock had set down his mobile and was speaking rapid-fire about life insurance and possible motives, and John's blood was singing in his ears. 

'This is it,' it seemed to say, 'He's the real deal. Don't bugger this up, Watson.'


	22. Only Nearly

John ended up paying for the cab, the shock of it almost dimming the shine Sherlock had managed to put on himself. Thank god the army had put his cheque in the bank, or he'd have looked quite foolish.

He hobbled up the stairs behind Sherlock and watched as the man simply sat and held his hands out. He looked like a greedy child asking for another biscuit. John rolled his eyes and handed the laptop over.

"It's password-" he started, falling off when Sherlock simply smiled and started the thing up, getting in after two guesses. "That's really less impressive than you think," he added.

Sherlock glanced up. "You're impressed enough," he said with a grin. "Now, sit."

John dropped onto the sofa next to him and looked at the screen.

_____

It should have been boring, watching Sherlock search the Internet in complete silence, but every few minutes Sherlock would jump up or shuffle over and make sure John saw exactly what he did. Each time he got fractionally closer, John felt his breath pulled from his lungs.

At the end of two hours John had a fairly good idea who the suspect was and Sherlock was finally done searching.

"Now," Sherlock said, handing the laptop over with a glint in his eyes, "we go running round the city."

John barely had time to set the laptop aside before he was following the mad man out the front door and down the alley. 

_____

The fact that Lestrade let them leave after seeing how John had manhandled the suspect into a wall and nearly broken his arm was almost unbelievable. John's body was thrumming with adrenalin, at his actions and the knowledge that his pistol was tucked beneath his jacket and digging into his waist, so he was more than glad when Sherlock suggested they walk home.

He was sore and could tell there would be pain the next day, but he felt alive.

"Good tackle there," Sherlock said after they'd been walking for about fifteen minutes. 

He needed to engage John since they were almost back to the flat. He couldn't have their last words of the day be a stilted goodbye. He watched John out of the corner of his eye and wondered if it was possible that this could last.

"The bastard was about to hit you. You can't tell me you didn't see it coming," John huffed, somehow more amused than annoyed.

"He was moving slow enough," Sherlock replied, right hand pushed into his pocket to keep it from brushing against John's. "I would have noticed at some point."

"Yeah, when he'd knocked you down," John chuckled, rounding on Baker Street and walking backwards so he could grin at Sherlock. "You're reckless."

Sherlock smiled back, enjoying the fluidity of John's movements. The man obviously didn't realise that he'd forgot his cane upstairs.

"Reckless, and mad," John went on, leading Sherlock up the stairs to the flat and walking right into the kitchen.

"I suppose I'll need a bodyguard, then," Sherlock answered, removing his coat and jacket and hanging them by the door.

John snorted and turned around, going suddenly silent at the image of Sherlock rolling up his sleeves. When he finally drew in a sharp breath it was because of a though that crossed his mind.

"You were letting me be useful," he said, taking a hesitant step forward and feeling as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest. "You never need someone to look out for you. Of all the cases, you've never needed a bodyguard."

Sherlock was a bit flustered, eyes falling to the floor. "That's not completely-"

"You bastard," John laughed. "You were letting me be the useless muscle."

Sherlock swallowed, not sure whether to admit that it was true. The whole case had been a three at best before he realised it was a murder. Greg had only showed up because Sherlock had begged him for a case for three whole days, and then, then he knew he wasn't even really needed. But John, John needed the case. Was he wrong to give him that, was-

He found himself being crowded up against the front door, and his eyes snapped up to meet John's.

"You're an idiot," John panted, tongue darting out. "I didn't need you to do that."

"Didn't you, though?" Sherlock asked, hands falling to John's biceps as the man rested his hands against the wall to cage him in. 

"You were, you know," John baited.

"I was," Sherlock bit, "was what?"

"Breathtaking," John said, leaning in and pressing his lips to Sherlock's.

It was overwhelming, like the second one realises they've tripped, right before they begin to fall. Like knowing things have taken a sudden turn and not being able to change that. 

'Steer into the skid,' his brain supplied.

He kissed back, hard, fingers clutching at John's arms as he was embraced. He let his arms wrap around John's waist and remove the pistol from its hiding place, dropping it on the small table by the door. John pulled back, out of breath, and looked to where it had been set.

"Safety first," Sherlock said reflexively.

John grinned and shook his head and pulled him back into his arms. "You git."

"I'm starting to think you see insults as foreplay," Sherlock replied, talking just to stay afloat.

"Problem?" John asked, fingers dipping into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers.

"You talk too much," Sherlock teased, feeling the string connecting them pull at his chest.

John laughed and gripped Sherlock's arse in both hands, eliciting a moan from the man as he squeezed hard. "Noted," he murmured, pushing his hips forward to prove his point.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sought out John's mouth with his lips, sucking and biting as they rutted against each other there in the entryway. It wasn't long before they were both grunting and close to a finish that was a year in the making.

"John," Sherlock gritted out, head falling back to thump against the door.

"Bloody gorgeous," John growled. "Go ahead, then. Come on."

Sherlock's eyes closed and his mouth hung open and John rutted against him twice more before he was crying out and coming in his pants. Sherlock shuddered and came as well, slumping in John's arms and letting out a contented sigh.

"God, you're unbelievable," John cooed, breathing hotly against Sherlock's neck. 

"I'm sticky," Sherlock insisted.

"Mmm," John agreed. "So'm I."

Sherlock, satisfied and spent, tried his luck. "Perhaps...a shower is in order."

John stilled and Sherlock's stomach fell. 

"Have you got a washing machine?" John asked, not at all what Sherlock was concerned he'd been thinking.

"Downstairs."

"Good," John sighed. "I'd rather not get back into dirty pants in the morning."

"You'll spend the night?" Sherlock asked.

John drew back and looked at Sherlock very seriously for a moment. "It was a shite way to introduce yourself to someone, you know. With a lie, and all."

"I know, John," Sherlock said, wondering if it would always come down to that, if he would always be reminded.

"So, try again," John said, nodding as if to convince himself.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John cleared his throat and stuck his hand out. "Nice to meet you. I'm John."

After a moment Sherlock took his hand and shook it. "I'm Sherlock."

John nodded again and sucked on his teeth. "Good. Now that that's out of the way."

"John," Sherlock questioned softly.

"You're forgiven. That's, ah, yeah, that's the end of that," John said, standing on his tip toes to kiss Sherlock on the nose. "Now get me something I can wear to bed and show me where the washing machine is."

Sherlock only nearly kept himself from crying with relief, only nearly.


	23. Stupidly

Sherlock stood in the corner watching John put the clothes in the wash, his and Sherlock's pants as well as his vest and shirt. He wasn't looking at the garish scar on John's shoulder (it red and inflamed and visible through the thin white cotton shirt Sherlock had set out for him), as John worried, but at John's body language. John was back to being guarded, starting the wash and fidgeting with the waist of the pyjama trousers Sherlock had lent him.

"You're staring," John said, without turning.

"You're uncomfortable," Sherlock replied quickly.

John closed the lid to the washer and walked over, settling his hands on Sherlock's biceps. "I'm fine," he murmured, looking Sherlock in the eyes and hoping he believed it.

The truth was, he was fine. More than fine. He was happier than he had been in a while, but worried that it might not last, not after Sherlock saw the scar. It might have seemed ridiculous to anyone else, but John was only just getting used to the scar and had a much more visceral response to it, due to the way it came to be, than anyone else might. He felt like it wasn't just on his shoulder, like it stretched up to his face and distorted his features.

The therapist that spoke with him at the hospital told him it would just take time to get used to it, it would take time to absorb it into his identity until it didn't stick out in his mind. Perhaps, he thought, he shouldn't have started a relationship this quickly after being discharged.

What he saw in Sherlock's eyes, the hurt and confusion, wiped that from his mind. He smiled and raised up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's lips gently. When he drew away Sherlock took his hand and led him back up to the flat. They undressed in silence as the water heated up and stepped under the spray in unison, pressed close in the small bath.

It took a while for Sherlock's hand to drift to John's scar, but when it did it was with reverence and curiosity instead of disgust. The way he looked at it, the way his fingers ran around the edge, had John's throat tightening.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, all but a whisper in the small space.

"It's tender," John answered, "like a bruise."

Sherlock leaned in, kissing it gently, and John let his eyes fall closed. It was hard to swallow. It was hard to think.

"It's horrible, isn't it?" John croaked, eyes still closed.

"Not at all," Sherlock said, fingers on it again.

John snorted and opened his eyes. "You don't have to lie."

"It's angry," Sherlock replied, "and fresh. But it's not horrible."

John nodded and Sherlock reached for his sweet smelling body wash, pouring some into his hand and starting to rub it over John's shoulders and chest. John hummed and let his eyes close again.

"Turn," Sherlock whispered, and John did, resting his hands on the cool tile and letting his head fall.

Sherlock massaged his back slowly.

"I imagined this," John said, relaxing wonderfully and enjoying the hot spray of water. "Well, not exactly, but..."

"I've missed you," Sherlock admitted, hands stilling as he took a step forward.

John turned and pulled him close. "Missed you, too."

"It's not a disappointment?" Sherlock asked, eyes drifting off to the side to avoid John's gaze.

"With an arse like this?" John asked. 

Sherlock squeaked when John gripped both cheeks and pulled him flush to his body.

"You're gorgeous," John said, rolling his hips. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Sherlock leaned in, water dripping from his hair, and kissed John roughly. They stayed like that, kissing and holding each other, for a long while. When they'd finally cleaned off and got back into their pyjamas, John was feeling a lot less tense. 

The climbed into bed together, John wrapping himself around Sherlock's back, and fell asleep with surprising ease.

_____

The next morning Sherlock woke to a knock on the bedroom door. He got out of bed, grumbling, and opened it to find Mrs H standing on the other side.

"Didn't mean to wake you, dear," she said, disgustingly cheery for that early in the morning.

"And yet," Sherlock countered.

She shook her head fondly at him and gestured to the table. "I dried and folded the clothes in the washer, and made your favorite sticky buns. Tell your man he's welcome to milk if he needs it for his tea."

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder to where John was tangled in the covers, and Mrs H patted his shoulder and left.

Sherlock went over to the table and picked at the sticky buns as he let his mind drift back to the night before. He'd never felt as close to someone as when he'd been in the shower with John, fingers playing over his scar. He wished he knew how to share something like that with John, how to show him something so private. His thoughts were interrupted by John waking and drifting towards the loo.

"Have you got a spare toothbrush?" John asked from inside the small room.

"Under the sink," Sherlock replied, walking closer to the door and watching John's outline as he went looking for it.

"Cheers," John returned, standing and turning on the sink.

Sherlock went to wait from him in the bedroom, sitting nervously on the edge of the bed. When John finally came out his eyes were still tired and he went immediately to crawl back under the sheets.

"I can make tea," Sherlock said, craning his neck to look at John.

"Come back to bed," John murmured, rubbing Sherlock's thigh through the duvet with his toes. "I haven't had a lie-in that wasn't medically necessary in a while."

"I'll just," Sherlock mumbled, going to clean his own teeth.

When he returned to bed John pulled him under the covers and tucked his face into his neck, breathing deeply against his skin and sighing. Sherlock was hesitant to relax, wanting to take in each new bit of information. John grumbled at that and pulled the covers over them, sliding down Sherlock's body and kissing his stomach. Sherlock's gasps turned into moans as John moved lower, licking down and down until he'd taken the head of Sherlock's prick between his lips.

Sherlock grunted and slammed his head back onto the bed, eyes squeezing closed and hands pulling the sheets down so he could breathe. It was hot, so hot, under those covers. His skin was pricking with sweat as all the blood rushed from his brain and took up residence further down.

John sucked and licked until Sherlock was hard and grasping, and then straddled his hips and kissed him roughly. When he finally pulled back to ask what Sherlock needed, the man looked shocked beyond belief.

"Hey," John murmured, catching Sherlock's eye. "Hey, you alright?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide, and John smiled at him, breath stolen from his chest. They kissed again, slower this time, and Sherlock found the courage to speak.

"This is, I'm not in the habit of having men in my bed," he admitted.

"If you-" John tried.

"But I am...prepared," Sherlock added, cutting him off and nodding towards the bedside table.

John took the hint well enough and reached over to retrieve the small bottle of lube and a pair of condoms. He licked his lips and Sherlock nodded.

"Just so we're clear," John started.

"In me," Sherlock whimpered, his prick pulsing against John's. "Please."

John wheezed out a laugh and let his head fall to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock chuckled as well, somewhat horrified by his own behavior, but fairly sure John didn't mind. That thought was proven fact as John finally moved between his legs and poured some lube out onto his fingers, knocking the sheets aside and looking like a god with his erection bobbing between muscled thighs.

"By not in the habit," John started, rubbing his forefinger in circles at Sherlock's arsehole, "you mean recently, or, or ever?"

"Once before," Sherlock admitted, sighing and rolling his hips. "It wasn't what I had hoped."

"But last night," John pressed, taking Sherlock's prick in his free hand as he slid one finger inside him.

"Was good," Sherlock panted. "God, John."

"Good, steady now," John murmured, continuing to stretch Sherlock and add more lube.

"Are you...practiced?" Sherlock asked, eyes closed as his body adjusted.

John laughed and leaned down to suck once more at the head of Sherlock's cock, just for a second. "Yes."

Sherlock found himself rather turned on by that, even as some part of him shouted that he should be jealous. "Very practiced?" he asked, breathless.

John crooked his fingers and let them drag against Sherlock's prostate gently. The man bucked under him and swore and John kissed his inner thighs.

"I'm a doctor," he said, in way of an answer.

"Comfortable with the human body," Sherlock added, voice shaky and forehead sweating.

"Familiar with the male form," John murmured, adding a third finger.

"Please," Sherlock whispered, head lolling and back arching off the bed. "For god's sake, before it's over."

John chuckled and pulled his fingers out slowly, rolling on a condom and slicking himself up. Sherlock opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows, mouth red and wet and open as he waited.

"Ready?" John asked, leaning forward and rubbing himself against Sherlock's hole.

"Yes," Sherlock whinged.

John pushed through the initial resistance in small movements, the heat of it rolling over Sherlock like waves. When he was finally fully seated Sherlock's legs were wrapped tightly around his waist and pulling him closer, deeper still. He tried to pull out, if only to push back in again, but Sherlock held him tight.

"Don't go," Sherlock whimpered, not sure what on earth he was referring to, as his mind was a bit scattered at the moment.

"I'm right here," John said, letting his hips go loose as Sherlock clung to him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, eyes closing as one hand curled into a fist in front of his mouth.

"Shh," John soothed. "It's okay. Hey, it's okay."

"I just wanted to talk to you," Sherlock said, tears falling from his closed eyes. "I wanted you to like me."

"It's okay, love," John murmured, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's chest gently.

"I never meant to hurt you," Sherlock added, worrying his bottom lip.

"Look at me," John said softly, fingers brushing through Sherlock's hair. "Look at me. I'm not hurt, yeah? Not anymore."

Sherlock let his eyes open and John smiled softly to show him it was true. Sherlock took in a weak breath and nodded.

John's smile grew. "Good. Good."

"I'm terribly in love with you," Sherlock said, brushing the tears from his eyes even as more fell.

John sighed and kissed him. "I'm terribly in love with you, too."

"Terribly?" Sherlock asked, voice wet.

"Horribly," John returned with a smile. "Massively."

"Stupidly," Sherlock added, giggling a little.

"It's a damn shame, really," John agreed, nodding.

Sherlock drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, his body relaxing as he did. John picked up one of his hands and kissed along his palm and fingertips. It only took one small suck, just the tip of Sherlock's thumb, for Sherlock to remember exactly what position they were in. He moaned and rolled his hips.

"God," John choked, head falling forward as he started to thrust slowly.

Sherlock moaned and reached between them to fist his own cock.

"Beautiful," John sighed, thrusting harder and deeper as Sherlock began to tighten around him.

"Oh," Sherlock grunted, "oh, John. Oh, oh."

"Go ahead," John said, face pressed to Sherlock's chest as he snapped his hips. "Go ahead, gorgeous."

Sherlock started to mumble and came, pumping his fist and spilling between them. John huffed and buried himself deep and cursed a few times before going completely still and pouring into Sherlock. 

The two of them ended up in a sweaty, salty, objectively disgusting, embrace. It took several minutes for either of them to move, and when they did it was to climb into the shower and continue where they'd left off; wrapped in each other's arms.


	24. One And The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the end of things. I'm so happy these idiots worked it all out. Catch you guys on the next one.

It was already half past ten by the time Sherlock and John were out of the shower and dressed. Lestrade had left multiple texts on Sherlock's mobile to remind him that they very much needed to attend the last briefing that morning, and then, after the briefing was long past, that they both had paperwork that needed to be signed.

Sherlock didn't care. It was something that usually drove him mad about the end of cases, paperwork and procedure, but it didn't seem to matter now. Not with John sitting at the table across from him, rifling through the paper and lazily finishing breakfast as his hair dried. Not with the way a bit of that hair stuck up above his ear no matter how he tried to wrangle it. Not with how easily John grumbled about the financials and licked glaze from his fingers.

"We need to go in," Sherlock said, at length. "Release forms and such."

"You mean I don't get to hit someone without filling out paperwork?" John asked, letting the paper fall enough to cock an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Political correctness gone mad."

Sherlock chuckled and John grinned at him as he folded the paper, their feet tangling below the table. One last sip of tea and John stood, stretching and yawning for good measure, before walking to the front door.

"Coming, love?" he asked over his shoulder.

Sherlock was already behind him, helping to pull his jacket all the way on and smooth down the shoulders gently. John huffed and closed his eyes, happier than he'd been in, Christ, yeah, years.

"Do you need something?" Sherlock asked, breath warm on John's neck. "For your shoulder, I mean."

"Shit," John cursed, head falling forward and hand going to his brow. "It's at the bedsit. Is there time to stop by?"

"Move in with me," Sherlock returned, surprising himself with the sort-of-request.

John stiffened and then turned, giving Sherlock the impression that he wasn't fond of the idea. He gripped Sherlock's chin and made him look up from the floor.

"I pay half," he murmured, kissing Sherlock's bottom lip with a sort of certainty that shut Sherlock right up.

He smiled softly as he pulled away, and reached down to get his gun. Sherlock frowned at the fact that it had been moved to the other side of the door and wondered how much Mrs Hudson noticed and kept to herself. 

_____

Sherlock was less than thrilled with the prospect of seeing either Sally or Anderson at the Yard, what with his newly founded relationship. It turned something sour in his stomach to know that they would probably look at them and laugh. He shouldn't be bothered by it, but still.

The feeling grew to its peak when they walked through the front door to find Anderson arguing with Lestrade outside the man's office. 

"No," Anderson squawked, "we can't have him just traipsing about-"

Sherlock cleared his throat and Anderson's ears turned pink, his jaw clenching as he turned. John, who always found he could get along with almost anyone as long as they didn't have to really know each other, bristled at the look. Anderson sneered at the both of them and stomped off. In his wake, John found that he'd moved a step closer to Sherlock and had his hand on Sherlock's lower back. He also found that he couldn't put more space between them, that his hand stayed there, pressed to the rough material of Sherlock's greatcoat, as he looked up at the man.

Greg watched as they had a silent conversation, both of them tensing and then relaxing and nodding to each other. This, he thought, is going to be interesting.

_____

That thought bore fruit an hour later when he entered the room to ask if the men were finished with the paperwork, only to find them sitting facing each other and giggling. Really. Giggling and poking each other. 

"Finished then?" he asked, feeling as though he was interrupting something rather private and wondering why they had to flirt in his office.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled, smiling at John with twitching lips, "tell John about the time Anderson fell in the fountain."

Greg rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I hardly think-"

"And Lestrade had to pull him out," Sherlock said, continuing on without noting the fact that he'd been told no. "There he was, all dressed in blue cover ups and soaking and holding onto the end of a broom for dear life!"

John snorted and licked his lips and Greg had to put a stop to it at that point because the look in his eyes was practically pornographic.

"You're released," he said, a bit forcefully. "Just, just get out of here. For Christ's sake."

John and Sherlock wandered off, barely even seeming to notice, and he sat back at his desk with a huff. He needed a drink.

_____

At the end of his shift, having forgot all about the situation with Sherlock and John, Greg dragged himself from the building and started the walk to the local. He was so tired that it took a few beats for him to notice the slick sedan pacing him. When he did, he huffed out a small laugh and walked right to the kerb. The window rolled down partway and he leaned against the door.

"Evening, Lestrade," Mycroft said from inside the car, paper folded in his lap and fingers clutching the edges. 

"You joining me for a drink?" Greg asked, already relaxing.

"Mmm. The other way round, I believe," Mycroft hummed.

"Not the club," Greg said with a sigh, unwilling to keep quiet after the day he'd had.

"Not the club," Mycroft agreed, sliding across the seat and letting Greg drop in next to him.

The sedan pulled away into traffic, a steady drizzle falling from the skies to mist the windows and play with the images of buildings as they passed, distorting them easily. Greg wanted to ask where they were going, but more than that, he wanted to pretend that he knew. 

In the last month they'd spent five nights in Mycroft's flat and only two in his. They were still edging towards what Greg was sure was more than friendship. It was strange for Greg, he'd always rushed into things, always. This time he felt like he'd spent so long trying not to rush into it that he'd confused things. There were times that he thought Mycroft knew how much he wanted him, like when they'd shared champagne late at night when his divorce had gone through, but other times he wondered if he was supposed to make the first move.

When they pulled up in front of Mycroft's building Greg forced himself to focus back on the present and follow Mycroft Up. The ride to the flat was painfully quiet and Greg wondered how awkward his own stupidity would make things.

"That pen pal of Sherlock's," Greg said as they made their way into the kitchen.

Mycroft nodded and poured them both a scotch.

"I think they're dating," Greg added. "John. It's the same guy, isn't it?"

"Surprisingly, yes. One and the same," Mycroft answered, handing Greg his glass and leaning back against the counter top.

"Well..." Greg stumbled, "good for them."

"They seem happy?" Mycroft asked, moving fractionally closer.

"Obnoxiously," Greg replied, throat tightening.

Mycroft looked over at him, his eyes drifting to Greg's lips. "Jealous?"

Greg snorted and felt himself blush. He was trying to think of something clever to say in return when he felt Mycroft take a deep breath and turn to face him.

"How long after a divorce does one usually wait before...dating?" Mycroft asked, face blank.

Greg looked up, shocked, and Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows and waited for a response.

"Asking for a friend?" Greg sputtered, setting his drink down and trying not to spill it.

"Has it been long enough?" Mycroft asked, plowing on and unwavering. "It's felt like a lifetime."

Greg surged forward and kissed him, hands finding purchase in expensive lapels. That, it seemed, was enough to shock the usually unflappable man, and when Greg pulled back he was met with a gasp and searching eyes.

"Agreed. Much too long," Greg murmured, hands going to Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft nodded and pulled Greg in for another kiss.

_____

"How does this blasted thing even work?" John grumbled, fiddling with his mobile as they sat in bed.

"Depends on what you want it to do," Sherlock replied, voice soft and cheeks still flushed from being buggered into the mattress only seconds before.

"Trying to take a picture. You'd think they'd make that simple. Bloody-" John cursed and fumbled.

Sherlock chuckled and took the thing from his hands, tapping on the home screen several times and then handing it back over. John grinned at him and lay down again, shuffling close. 

It was small, having your picture taken by your significant other, and it wasn't even with a real camera, but it made something in Sherlock's chest grow and unfurl and he suddenly couldn't breathe.

In the photo, which Sherlock insisted John send him, the smile on Sherlock's face was almost ridiculous in its intensity. It was printed and stuck in the box in the closet the next day. There, amongst the other detritus of Sherlock's life, it pressed up against the picture of John's face when he'd called Sherlock breathtaking in that video months before. John's smile was one and the same.


End file.
